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This  series  of  Scandinavian  Classics  is  published 
by  The  American-Scandinavian  Foundation  in  the 
belief  that  greater  familiarity  with  the  chief  literary 
monuments  of  the  North  will  help  Americans  to  a 
better  understanding  of  Scandinavians,  and  thus  serve 
to  stimulate  their  sympathetic  cooperation  to  good  ends 


SCANDINAVIAN  CLASSICS 
VOLUME  XIX 

A  BOOK  OF 
DANISH  VERSE 


ESTABLISHED   BY 
NIELS  POULSON 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 


TRANSLATED  IN  THE  ORIGINAL  METERS  BY 

S.  Foster  Damon 

AND 

Robert  Silliman  Hillyer 

selected   and 

annotated  by 

gluf  triis 


NEW  YORK 

THE  AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN  FOUNDATION 

LONDON:     HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

1922 


Copyright,  IQ22,  by  The  American-Scandinavian  Foundation 


C.  S.  Peterson,   The  Regan  Printing  House,  Chicago,  U.  S.  A 


CONTENTS 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  PAGE 


THERE  IS  A  CHARMING  LAND 

13 

THE  GOLDEN  HORNS 

>4 

HAKON  JARL'S  DEATH 

21 

THE  DRIVE 

26 

MORNING  WALK 

27 

SUMMER  HOLIDAY 

30 

THE    LIFE    OF    JESUS    CHRIST    SYMBOLIZED    IN 

NATURE 

32 

CHRIST'S  BIRTH 

CHRIST'S  MANHOOD 

34 

THE  HOLY  EUCHARIST 

35 

ALADDIN'S  LULLABY 

37 

SONG:    BEHIND  BLACK  WOODS 

39 

CARSTEN  HAUCH 

THE  WILD  HUNT  4a 

HOME  45 

CONSOLATION  IN  ADVERSITY  46 

THE  PLEIADES  AT  MIDNIGHT  47 


N.  F.  S.  GRUNDTVIG 

DENMARK'S  CONSOLATION  50 

THE  HARROWING  OF  HELL  51 

DAY  SONG  55 


CONTENTS 


B.  S.  INGEMANN  PAGE 

MORNING  SONG  58 

EVENING  SONG  59 

EVENING  SONG  60 

EVENING  SONG  61 

HOLGER  DANSKE'S  ARMS  61 


POUL  MOLLER 

JOY  OVER  DENMARK  63 

THE  OLD  PEDANT  65 

THE  MASTER  AMONG  THE  RIOTERS  67 


CHRISTIAN  WINTHER 

A  SUMMER  NIGHT  79 

FLY,  BIRD,  FLY  80 

THE  NIGHT  WAS  KINDLY  AND  VAST  82 

OVER  THE  OCEAN'S  BARREN  MEADOW  83 


LUDVIG  BODTCHER 

HARVEST  MEMORY  85 

MEETING  WITH  BACCHUS  86 


EMIL  AARESTRUP 

THE  SLEEPER  99 

MORNING  WALK  icxj 

FEAR  loi 

EARLY  PARTING  101 

RITOURNELLES  105 


CONTENTS 

HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  PAGE 

THE  DYING  CHILD  109 

FREDERIK  PALUDAN-MULLER 

TO  THE  STAR  (FROM  THE  DANCER)  no 

THE  PEARL  113 

TWO  SONNETS  114 

THE  TRUMPET  OF  DOOM  116 


J.  P.  JACOBSEN 

AN  ARABESQUE  iig 
VALDEMAR'S  COMPLAINT  OVER  HIS  MURDERED 

MISTRESS  120 

THE  WOOD  WHISPERS  WITH  TOVE'S  VOICE  121 

APPARITION  122 

NIGHT  PIECE  123 

GENRE  PICTURE  124 

SCARLET  ROSES  124 


HOLGER  DRACHMANN 

IMPROVISATION  ON  BOARD  126 

I  HEAR  IN  THE  MIDNIGHT  127 

SAKUNTALA  128 

THE  ROOM  SANK  IN  SILENCE  130 

BARCAROLLE  131 

THERE  WELLS  UP  SOUND  133 

THE  DAY  WHEN  FIRST  I  SAW  YOUR  FACE  134 

VALBORG  SONG  135 

VOLUND  THE  SMITH  137 


CONTENTS 


VIGGO  STUCKENBERG  PAGE 

CONFESSION  139 

EARLY  OCTOBER  140 

SNOW  14a 


JOHANNES  JORGENSEN 

AUTUMN  DREAM  143 

THE  PLANTS  STAND  SILENT  ROUND  ME  144 

CONFESSION  145 


LUDVIG  HOLSTEIN 

AH,  LOOK,  MY  FRIEND  147 

SUNLIGHT  IN  THE  ROOM  148 

FATHER,  THE  SWANS  FLY  AWAY  149 


HELGE  RODE 

MORNING  151 

PURPLE  152 

DREAM  KISS  i53 


JEPPE  AAKJAER 

PRELUDE  154 

PAE'  SIVENSAK  iSS 

JUTLAND  156 


SOPHUS  CLAUSSEN 

ABROAD  i6i 

PAN  1 6a 


CONTENTS 


JOHANNES  V.  JENSEN  PAGE 

AT  MEMPHIS  STATION  165 

THE  RED  TREE  169 

THE  WANDERING  GIRL  172 

THE  BLIND  GIRL  172 

MOTHER'S  SONG  175 

COLUMBUS  176 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH 
VERSE 


Adam  Oehlenschlager^   1779-1850 

THERE  IS  A  CHARMING  LAND 

There  is  a  charming  land 

Where  grow  the  wide-armed  beeches 

By  the  salt  eastern  Strand. 

Old  Denmark,  so  we  call 

These  rolling  hills  and  valleys, 

And  this  is  Freia's  Hall. 

Here  sat  in  days  of  yore 
The  warriors  in  armour, 
Well  rested  from  the  war. 
They  scattered  all  their  foes, 
And  now  beneath  great  barrows 
Their  weary  bones  repose. 

The  land  is  lovely  still, 
With  blue  engirdling  ocean 
And  verdant  vale  and  hill. 
Fair  women,  comely  maids. 
Strong  men  and  lads  are  dwelling 
In  Denmark's  island  glades. 

R.  S.  H. 

13 


14  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 


THE  GOLDEN  HORNS 

They  pry  in  pages 
Of  ancient  sages, 
Tliey  search  in  the  glooms 
Of  mounded  tombs, 
On  swords  and  shields 
In  ruined  fields, 
On  Runic  stones 
Among  crumbled  bones. 

A  fugitive  glance 
Of  the  past  enchants 
The  inquisitive  mind; 
But  the  dark  flows  over 
And  shadows  cover 
The  dusty  screeds, 
The  heroic  deeds, 
Till  the  eyes  are  blind 
And  the  thoughts  go  out 
In  a  mist  of  doubt. 
"You  old,  old 
Ages  of  gold. 
Flaming  forth 
Light  from  the  North, 
When  heaven  was  on  earth; 
Out  of  the  black 
Where  the  years  mingle, 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  i5 

Give  us  a  single 
Glimpse  back." 

Night  hurries 
In  cloudy  flurries ; 
Tumuli  waken, 
The  rose  is  shaken, 
A  voice  through  the  skies 
Profoundly  sighs. 
Over  the  storms 
The  gods  arise. 
War-crimsoned  forms. 
Star-flashing  eyes. 

"O  you  who  fumble  blind 

Shall  find 

A  timeless  trace 

Of  the  vanished  race. 

A  while  you  shall  hold  it. 

Then  darkness  shall  fold  it. 

The  graven  mark 

Of  the  years  that  are  dark 

Is  stamped  on  its  sides, — 

There  your  secret  abides. 

To  honour  us,  lift 

Devout  hearts  for  the  gift. 

The  fairest  of  mortals, 

A  maid. 

Is  destined  to  find  it." 

So  they  sing,  and  the  shade 


i6  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Surges  over  the  throng ; 
Night  captures  their  song 
And  closes  the  portals 
Behind  it. 

Hrymfaxe  the  black 
Snorts,  and  plunges 
Into  the  tide. 
Delling  flings  back 
The  bolts  of  dawn. 
The  gate  swings  wide. 
Skinfaxe  lunges 
Up  from  the  dark 
On  the  heavenly  arc. 

And  the  birds  are  singing 

In  the  pearled  showers 

Of  dew  on  the  flowers 

Where  the  winds  are  swinging. 

And  the  winds  breathe  her 

Over  the  day, 

The  maid  who  dances 

To  the  fields  away. 

Violets  wreathe  her. 

Cheeks  aglow, 

Hands  like  snow, 

Light  as  a  hind, 

Gainly  and  gay. 

Carefree  mind. 

Smile  that  humbles 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  i7 

The  smiling  land ; 
Sprightly  wandering, 
Love  pondering, — 
She  stumbles. 
She  starts  to  behold 
Flames  of  gold. 
And  lifts  from  under 
The  black  mould 
With  her  white  hand 
The  red  gold. 

The  zenith  shakes 
With  thunder. 
All  the  North  wakes 
In  wonder. 

Then  come  the  crowds 
In  busy  clouds. 
Dig  and  measure 
To  find  more  treasure. 
There  is  no  more  gold, 
Their  hopes  are  shaken. 
They  see  only  the  mould 
Whence  it  was  taken. 

A  century  passes. 

Over  the  masses 
Of  shadowy  peaks 
The  sluice  of  the  storm 
Tremendously  breaks. 


i8  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

The  turbulent  swarm, 
The  warrior  legion, 
Across  the  Norwegian 
Mountain,  calls; 
Over  the  wold 
And  the  Danish  plain 
To  the  cloud-built  halls 
Where  the  radiant  Old 
Gather  again. 

"The  few  who  know 
The  gift  we  bestow, 
Who  never  surrender 
To  earthly  bond ; 
Who  scale  the  splendour 
Of  eternity, 

And  through  Nature  see 
The  light  beyond. 
Who  trembling  divine 
God's  fires  that  shine 
In  flowers,  in  suns, 
In  west,  in  east, 
In  greatest,  in  least; 
Whose  thirst  burns 
For  the  Life  of  life; 
Who — O  Great  Spirit 
Of  the  vanished  days  I — 
Who  see  thy  rays 
In  radiance,  rife 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  19 

On  the  holy  form 

Of  the  ancient  relic ; — 

Over  the  storm, 

Through  the  gathered  night, 

Surely  they  hear 

Again  thy  clear 

*Let  there  be  Light !' 

The  son  of  Nature, 

Unsought,  obscure, 

In  whom  endure 

The  heroic  stature, 

The  honest  face, 

Of  his  father's  race; 

Whose  fruitful  soil 

Is  rich  with  his  toil, — 

It  shall  be  our  pleasure 

To  honour  him. 

He  shall  find  again 

Our  hidden  treasure !" 

The  light  is  grey, 

The  forms  grow  dim, 

Over  rock  and  plain 

They  vanish  away. 

Hrymfaxe  the  black 
Snorts,  and  plunges 
Into  the  tide. 
Delling  flings  back 
The  bolts  of  dawn. 


ao  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

The  gate  swings  wide. 
Skinfaxe  lunges 
Up  from  the  dark 
On  the  heavenly  arc. 

Where  trees  and  bushes 
Spread  their  shadow, 
The  plough  pushes 
Through  the  black  meadow. 

Abruptly  the  plough 
Stops,  and  there  rush 
Shudders  of  wonder 
Through  every  bough. 
The  clouds  sunder, 
Bird-notes  cease, 
All  voices  fall 
In  a  holy  hush. 
Profound  peace 
Consecrates  all. 

Then  clinks  in  the  mould 
The  timeless  gold. 

Glimpses  from  the  days  of  yore 
Sparkle  down  the  aisles  of  time; 
Strangely  they  appear  once  more, 
Riddles  shining  through  the  grime. 

Aureoles  of  mystery  hover 
Over  every  secret  mark; 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  21 

Flames  of  deity  discover 

Beauty  working  through  the  dark. 

Hallow  them,  for  Fate's  undaunted 
Hand  shall  sweep  away  the  trove. 
Christ's  blood  fill  them,  like  the  wonted 
Blood  beneath  the  sacred  grove. 

Yet,  you  only  see  the  graven 
Gold,  and  not  the  light  above  it; 
Common  riches  shown  for  craven 
Eyes  to  estimate  and  covet. 

The  hour  strikes ;  the  gods  have  given ; 
Now  the  gods  have  taken  back; 
Storms  crash;  the  clouds  are  riven; 
The  relics  vanish  in  the  black. 

R.  S.  H. 


HAKON  JARL'S  DEATH 

The  nights  are  brooding  long  and  black; 
The  Seven  Stars  glimmer  pale. 
Winds  rush  from  the  gates  of  the  zodiac, 
The  pine  tree  snaps  in  the  cold  gale. 
In  the  sacred  grove  the  tempest  rages 
Among  the  moss-grown  gods  of  the  ages. 
"Valhal  is  past; 
We  sink  at  last!" 


22     '       A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

It  throws  to  the  ground  stained  altar  stones 
And  crushes  the  sacrificial  bones. 

The  heap  of  Gothic  masonry  lowers 

Brown  in  the  moon's  uncertain  glance; 

In  dark  blue  air  rise  strutting  towers, 

And  round  the  walls  lean  shadows  dance. 

A  wisp  of  light  spreads  ghostly  fingers 

Through  painted  glass  to  the  Cross,  and  lingers. 

"They  are  sacrificed, 

Thou  white  Christ! 

Thy  crown  of  thorns  shall  drive  them  forth 

From  the  windswept  mountains  of  the  North." 

Olaf  Trygvason  lands  with  his  vassals. 

They  sing  the  mass  on  Norway's  strand; 

From  gloomy  southern  castles 

He  brings  his  monks  to  the  mountain  land. 

The  Christian  faith  invades  the  region, 

But  Hakon  leads  his  peasant  legion 

To  fight  and  bleed 

For  the  old  creed. 

They  meet  the  King,  but  the  ancient  faith 

Goes  down  in  the  sunset  flame  of  death. 

The  cock  crows  loud  through  the  midnight  glade. 
Earl  Hakon  slays  his  son. 
Draws  from  his  body  the  smoking  blade. 
And  prays  in  the  grove  to  the  Pallid  One. 
"Christ,  let  the  radiant  gods  still  live ! 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  23 

My  heart  raves!  what  more  can  I  give? 

Go  back  again 

To  thy  southern  plain  I" 

But  the  owl  flutters  on  the  breast  of  the  Norn; 

It  shrieks,  and  the  mountain  echoes  mourn. 

Christian  banners  seethe  in  the  air; 

They  flash,  they  flash  through  the  land. 

The  heartening  horns  of  the  Christians  blare; 

Luck  moves  with  Olaf  hand  in  hand. 

The  Saviour  is  carried  before  him  proudly, 

Psalms  and  litanies  sound  loudly; 

With  cross-shaped  sword 

He  leads  the  horde. 

Victorious  rumours  clear  his  path; 

Hakon  flies  in  lonely  wrath. 

He  spurs  his  whinnying  horse;  at  the  river 

Gaul  it  stops,  spattered  with  foam. 

"Let  the  Norwegian  cowards  shiver; 

I  never  betray  my  ancient  home." 

Weeping,  he  kills  his  horse,  and  stains 

His  coat  with  the  blood  from  the  gushing  veins. 

"You  will  think  it  is  I 

That  bleed  and  die, 

But,  Olaf,  I  still  have  men  for  war, 

And  on  my  side  fight  Tyr  and  Thor." 

His  eyes  flash  with  a  fierce  despair. 

He  flies  to  the  mountains'  pine-roofed  halls, 


24  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

And  hides  in  a  shadowy  cavern  there 
With  Thormod  Karker,  one  of  his  thralls. 
A  splinter  of  pine  casts  smoky  light 
Where  the  two  sit  silent  in  the  night. 
Distrustful,  both, 
Of  the  spoken  oath. 

The  thrall's  eyes  stare  at  the  earl,  aghast, 
But  midnight  comes,  and  he  sleeps  at  last. 

Then  a  rustle  runs  through  the  cave's  dark  length. 

Hermod  appears  to  the  scowling  earl, 

"The  gods  have  put  their  faith  in  thy  strength, — 

Bane  on  Olaf,  the  Christian  churl ! 

Fair  Freia  weeps,  her  gold  tears  fall. 

Shall  a  southern  crucified  criminal 

Be  overlord? 

Go,  swing  your  sword ! 

Pour  Olaf's  blood  in  every  shrine, 

And  a  seat  in  Valhal  shall  be  thine !" 

The  red  shade  wanes  away  in  space. 

Just  then  the  thrall  wakes  with  a  scream : 

"Jesus  showed  me,  with  smiling  face, 

Your  body  drenched  in  a  bloody  stream." 

"What!  craven  slave  1  do  you  fear  Thor's  thunder? 

You  are  grey  as  the  sky  when  the  sun  goes  under. 

Dare  you  betray 

Your  master?"    "Nay." 

The  thrall's  heart  cringes,  terror-frosted, 

tThe  earl  sinks  down  in  sleep,  exhausted. 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  25 

He  dreams,  strangely  smiling  and  sighing. 

Karker  gazes  as  though  bewitched. 

"Why  did  I  see  his  body  lying 

In  blood?  and  why  is  his  right  brow  twitched? 

He  is,  after  all,  a  robber,  a  blot 

On  Norway's  fame.    I  could!  .  .  .  why  not? 

When  Olaf  is  told 

He  will  give  me  gold." 

He  pauses,  trembles,  then  Hakon's  life 

Spurts  from  the  gullet  under  the  knife. 

Loudly  the  horns  from  the  hills  come  pealing. 
"Here  he  is !    At  last  we  have  found  him  !'* 
Like  a  racing  river  rushing  and  reeling 
Olaf  bursts  in  with  his  vassals  round  him. 
The  thrall  is  felled  with  their  battle-axes. 
Olaf  sees  Hakon;  his  face  relaxes 
In  smile  to  see 
The  dead  enemy. 

"Vengeance !  the  master  heathen  is  slain, 
And  the  veil  of  darkness  rent  in  twain." 

It  rumbles  across  the  horizoned  heaven; 
The  ocean  trembles,  the  sound  goes  forth 
That  the  radiant  gods  of  old  are  driven 
Away,  and  will  never  return  to  the  North. 
Eternally,  nothing  but  cloisters  and  churches; 
Gone  are  the  groves,  but  he  that  searches 
May  sometimes  behold 


26  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

In  the  lonely  wold 

An  upright  stone  with  a  hero's  mark 
Still  touched  with  the  flames  long  quenched  in  dark. 

R.  S.  H. 


THE  DRIVE 

From  stuffy,  dark  houses 

Out  over  the  wold 

Where  the  ploughed  furrow  drowses 

In  a  haze  of  gold — 

See  the  man  in  the  meadow, 

Healthy  and  lithe. 

As  under  the  shadow 

He  sharpens  his  glittering  scythe. 

Look  there  where  the  flowers 
Have  woven  a  band 
Round  grey  Gothic  towers 
Where  white  crosses  stand. 
And  the  spire's  brown  column 
Looms  grave  and  aloof — 
See  the  stork  that  with  solemn 
Demeanour  struts  over  the  roof. 

The  ravine  sloping  steeply 
To  meet  the  blue  seas 
Is  forested  deeply 
With  green-shadowed  trees. 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  27 

And  little  brooks  flashing 

Across  the  green  ground, 

Bravely  go  dashing 

Away  toward  the  sky-coloured  Sound. 

Our  cart  slowly  forces 

Through  sand,  and  we  ride 

So  near  that  the  horses 

Are  splashed  by  the  tide. 

A  gull  circles  over 

The  waves  with  a  scream, 

Far  out  we  discover 

Hven  Island  in  mist  like  a  dream. 

Once  more  the  tall  beeches, 

The  tangled  ravine. 

The  long  forest  reaches. 

The  song  in  the  green. 

And  now  in  the  clearing 

A  flashing  array 

Of  tents — we  are  nearing 

The  place  of  our  laughter  and  play. 

R.  S.  H. 

MORNING  WALK 

To  the  holy  beechwood,  gently  thou 

Hast  beckoned  me; 
O  Earth  I  where  never  the  heavy  plough 

Had  furrowed  thee. 


28  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

The  flowers  that  cling  to  the  chequered  shade, 

As  I  passed  them  by 
Smiled  up  from  the  hollows,  unafraid, 

Toward  the  open  sky. 

I  crossed  through  a  flat  expanse  of  field 

To  reach  the  wood; 
By  three  low  hillocks,  half-concealed, 

A  barrow  stood. 
Grey  with  the  years'  encrusted  rime, 

That  oval  ring 
Recalled  from  the  flat  expanse  of  time 

Its  court  and  King. 

0  sparkling  field,  O  virgin  glade, 
O  grass-cool  dale. 

On  you  had  Flora  softly  laid 

Her  bridal  veil. 
Cornflowers,  red  and  blue,  entwined 

A  diadem; 

1  had  to  stop,  I  had  to  find 

A  word  for  them. 

Welcome  again  this  happy  year 

In  the  sunny  morn ! 
Gaily  you  twinkle  and  disappear 

Among  the  corn. 
Blue  stars  and  red,  you  shine  among 

Gold  lightning  gleams, 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  29 

And  in  your  eyes,  so  clear,  so  young, 
All  summer  dreams. 

"Ah,  Poet,  thou  dost  not  know,  I  fear. 

Our  sorrowful  case; 
Thou  shouldst  but  see  the  master  here 

And  his  scowling  face. 
Each  time  he  looks  at  us,  he  swears 

We  are  a  thorn 
In  the  flesh,  and  Hell's  predestined  tares 

In  the  sacred  corn." 

Ah,  flowers,  I  too  must  share  your  fate  I 

A  poet  grows 
Like  a  random  cornflower  in  the  great 

Field's  ordered  rows. 
He  stands  in  the  way  of  the  useful  grain 

In  idleness. 
Lifting  his  colours  to  sun  and  rain 

For  the  Lord's  caress. 

We  belong  to  one  another ;  we  all 

Are  destitute. 
Fair  children,  wreathe  your  carnival 

Over  my  lute. 
Tremble  as  in  the  wind,  with  clear 

Music  along 
Each  vibrant  string,  and  God  shall  hear 

Our  morning  song. 

R.  S.  H. 


30  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

SUMMER  HOLIDAY 

The  day  is  tranquil,  quietly  exalted, 
High  rises  her  abode,  green  flower-vaulted. 
Light  winged  butterflies  bend  the  new  grasses, 
Brook  water,  a  blue  rippled  singing,  passes. 

Down  from  Olympus  dances  the  newcomer, 
Flora,  veiled  in  the  hazes  of  young  summer; 
Her  blond  hair  flashes  with  the  wind's  veering, 
Each  heavy  head  of  grain  is  her  golden  earring. 

Before  my  eyes  there  breathes  the  grass-green 

bodice 
Circling  the  lily  breasts  of  the  slim  goddess; 
Then,  as  day  wanes,  the  moonlight  twines  a  slender 
Belt  on  the  water,  gleaming  in  silver  splendour. 

Silence !  swift  Artemis  runs  over  the  meadow. 
Glimmering  through  nets  of  half-transparent 

shadow; 
And  now  she  shakes  her  torch,  the  pale  flame 

blanches 
Through  rifted  clouds  and  overarching  branches. 

Hecate  comes  across  the  twilight,  tending 
Her  plants,  and  here  she  lifts  the  backward  bending 
Night  violets  for  their  sweetness,  there  she  closes 
The  purple  cups  of  all  her  virgin  roses. 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  31 

Then  slowly  pacing  toward  me  from  the  river, 
The  Mother  of  the  Muses,  memory-giver, 
Grave  Nimosene  comes  across  the  ages 
And  reads  aloud  from  long-forgotten  pages. 

Where  the  black-mantled  night  sits  brooding  under 
The  nightingale's  old  mystery  and  wonder, 
Her  watch  above  two  children  she  is  keeping; 
One  is  pretending  sleep,  the  other  sleeping. 

The  first  will  rise  when  scarlet  dawn  is  shaken 
Over  the  hills ;  the  other  will  not  waken, 
For  she  is  death.    The  first  one  waves  her  holy 
Poppy  wand,  and  sleep  enfolds  me  slowly.  . .  . 

Who  rises  yonder  in  the  orient,  laden 
With  swathes  of  colour?   Ah,  the  rosiest  maiden 
Aurora!  but  she  flies  already,  frightened; 
A  youth  stands  in  her  stead;  the  hills  are 
brightened. 

He  plucks  the  strings  of  his  enchanted  lyre. 
Day  flings  the  answer  back  in  chords  of  fire, 
And  then  from  a  thousand  hidden  tangles,  ringing, 
Flows  the  great  morning  hymn  the  birds  are 
singing. 

Also  in  me,  in  me,  Phoebus  Apollo, 

You  waken  songs  of  praise;  mine  too  shall  follow 

The  wind-path  through  the  trees  till  they  mount 

and  render 
My  homage  in  the  zenith  of  your  splendour. 


32  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Homage  and  thanks  for  the  song  we  send  to  meet 

you; 
For  the  spark  of  fire  we  yield  again  to  greet  you ; 
Urged  by  your  golden  arrows  we  rise  and  enter 
With  you,  the  universe's  radiant  centre. 

R.  S.  H. 


THE  LIFE  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 
SYMBOLIZED  IN  NATURE 

Christ's  Birth 

Each  year  when  vapours  melt  and  wane, 
Child  Jesus  Christ  is  born  again; 
The  Angel  in  air,  in  grove,  in  sea. 
It  is  the  Saviour,  it  is  He. 
Wherefore  all  Nature,  with  serene 
Rejoicing,  buds  in  hopeful  green. 

Now  the  young  stainless  shepherd  lads. 
Watching  the  stars'  high  myriads, 
See  God's  angels  in  fields  of  night 
Assemble,  trembling  in  cool  moonlight. 
"To-day  a  Saviour  is  born,"  they  sing, 
"From  gentle  Mary's  womb,  from  spring. 

"His  only  drink  is  the  earliest  dew. 
His  eyes  gaze  heavenward  into  the  blue, 
His  hands  reach  heavenward;  they  are  bound 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  33 

With  garlands  of  roses  to  the  ground. 
His  cry  is  the  breeze,  in  the  straw  he  lies, 
Blue  heaven  mirrored  in  his  eyes. 

"Ah  shepherds,  go  to  Bethlehem; 
Seek  the  cold-hearted,  counsel  them 
To  go  into  the  fields,  and  find 
The  laughing  Child,  green  grass-entwined, 
And  hear  his  voice,  and  see  his  smile. 
That  heaven  may  lift  the  earth  awhile." 

The  hovering  angels  reascend. 
To  Bethlehem  the  shepherds  wend. 
And  tell  their  happy  news,  but  they 
Are  scorned,  and  mocked,  and  turned  away 
Back  to  the  meadows,  where  the  sod 
Blooms  with  the  new-born  Child  of  God. 

The  stars  stretch  forth  their  silver  hands 
And  beckon  the  kings  of  the  eastern  lands ; 
The  rays  come  singing  with  holy  sound 
And  humbly  sink  to  the  living  ground. 
Praising  the  Lord  made  manifest. 
Who  smiles  from  the  Mother's  lovely  breast. 

They  rise  again  from  the  darkened  mould 
In  petals  of  purple,  crimson,  and  gold, 
Innocent  children,  devout  and  fair. 
Half-lifted,  half-bent  to  the  earth  in  prayer, 
Holding  their  yellow  urns  astir 
With  the  sweetness  of  frankincense  and  myrrh. 


34  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 


Christ's  Manhood 

I  know  not  where  thou  art. 
Where  hast  thou  gone,  dear  child, 
Thou  who  from  earth's  young  heart 
Hast  looked  to  Heaven  and  smiled? 
Ah,  in  the  scorched  field 
I  search  for  thee  in  vain, 
But  in  the  woods  concealed 
I  find  thee  once  again. 

So  tall,  so  exquisite, 
Thou  wanderest  alone. 
In  the  glades  dimly  lit. 
Far  from  the  fiery  zone 
Where  the  pompous  Pharisee 
Dazzles  the  sun-cracked  mould 
With  purple  pageantry 
And  flashing  sheen  of  gold. 

Thou  wanderest,  O  Young 

And  Beautiful,  away 

From  splendour,  deep  among 

The  cool  retreats  of  day. 

I  heard  as  in  a  dream 

Through  the  green-shadowed  hall 

Voices  of  bird  and  stream, 

And  thy  voice  through  them  all. 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  35 

The  Holy  Eucharist 
Where  hast  thou  gone,  dear  child, 
Who  looked  to  heaven  and  smiled, 
From  the  gleaming 
Earth,  dreaming? 

In  woods  and  caverns  thou  art  seen  no  more. 
The  air  is  harsh,  the  ground  is  dead  and  frore. 

All  her  child-like  flowers  slain, 
Nature  will  not  smile  again. 
She  is  sick  to  death,  and  sear, 
Pregnant  with  the  fruitful  year. 
Yet,  above  the  labouring  root 
Redden  the  ripe  cheeks  of  fruit. 
I  will  take  thee,  little  one, 
Nourished  by  the  earth  and  sun. 
Feed  on  thee  in  peace,  and  know 
Nothing  of  thy  mother's  woe. 

Wrinkled  tree,  like  thee  I  stand 
In  the  mighty  orchard-land. 
Wait  as  thou  dost,  to  be  fed 
With  the  earth's  unstinted  bread. 
Share  thy  strength  with  me,  renew 
My  vanished  sap  and  vigour  too; 
Humbly  I  would  share  thy  meal. 
Kneeling  as  the  flowers  kneel ; 
In  thy  leaves  one  mote  of  dust 
Twinkling  down  the  autumn  gust. 


36  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Great  thy  power,  O  generous  tree ! 
Courage,  immortality, 
Fill  thee  from  thy  groping  root, 
Fill  me  from  thy  basking  fruit; 
Circulation  through  one  whole 
Undivided  perfect  soul. 
Mighty  body,  on  thy  flesh 
I  have  fed,  and  live  afresh; 
Hallowed  was  that  heavenly  bread — 
Why  is  all  thy  beauty  dead? 

Silence  I  Ah,  the  sweetness, 

The  colours  that  run  through  the  vineyard  with 

radiant  fleetness ! 
The  gladness  that  flashes  through  Nature's 

shadowed  dwelling! 
What  is  it  that  gleams  and  laughs  where  the  grapes 

are  swelling? 

Exquisite  grape,  wine-ruddied. 

Dark  nature  revives  in  thy  flame,  and  is  flooded 

With  light  from  thy  locks  as  the  sunbeams  caress 

thee. 
The  shadow  weaves 
A  face  in  the  leaves, 
And  devoutly  into  the  chalice  I  press  thee. 

And  the  angel  who  awoke  the  spring. 
Whom  sultry  summer  drove  away 
To  the  forest  twilight-glimmering, 
Is  sparkling  here  in  the  purple  spray. 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  37 

The  gentle  flame,  the  river  sound, 
Light  ether,  spring's  celestial  friend. 
The  veil  of  flowers  over  the  ground — 
All  fill  this  chalice  at  the  end. 

Lift  the  cup  with  reverent  hands, 
Stiff  though  they  be  with  harvest  frost, 
Deep  in  the  heart  that  understands 
All  blooms  eternal,  nothing  lost. 

Your  withered  creeds  take  root  once  more ; 
Your  bread  and  wine  are  sacrificed; 
Drink,  heavenward  gazing,  and  adore — 
This  is  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ. 

R.  S.  H. 


ALADDIN'S  LULLABY  TO  HIS  DEAD  MOTHER 

Lullaby,  little  Love, 
Slumber  sweetly,  slumber  deep. 
Though  your  cradle  will  not  move, 
I  shall  lull  you.  Child,  to  sleep. 

Do  you  hear  the  muffled  storm 
Sorrowing  in  brotherhood? 
Do  you  hear  the  hungry  worm 
Ticking  in  the  coflin  wood  ? 


38  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Slumber,  Child,  as  I  sing. 
Nought  is  lacking;  take  your  ease. 
Hark!  your  rattle's  merry  ring 
From  the  spire  between  the  trees ! 

Now  the  nightingale  for  us 
Hovers  nearer,  great  with  song; 
You  have  lulled  me  often  thus, 
Now  I  lull  you,  slumber  long. 

If  your  heart  be  not  of  flint, 
Mother,  see  what  I  can  do ! 
From  this  little  elder  splint 
I  shall  make  a  flute  for  you. 

I  will  play  for  your  delight 
With  a  soft,  complaining  tone, 
Like  a  wandering  voice  at  night 
Through  wet  winter  branches  blown. 

Ah,  but  I  must  leave  you  here. 
For  your  arms  are  cold  as  snow. 
And  I  have  no  cottage  near, 
Warm  and  bright,  where  I  can  go. 

Lullaby,  then,  little  Love, 
Slumber  sweetly,  slumber  deep, 
Though  your  cradle  will  not  move, 
I   shall  lull  you.    Child,   to   sleep. 

R.  S.  H. 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  39 

SONG 

Behind  black  woods  the  pale 

Moonlight  is  sifting. 
To  God  the  nightingale 

Her  song  is  lifting. 
The  low  tones  float  and  linger, 

Blend  and  expire, 
And  I  hear  the  brook's  white  finger 

Plucking  her  lyre. 

In  the  wood  there  is  one  flower 

Death  has  chosen; 
(Soon,  soon,  perhaps,  my  hour!) 

Its  heart  is  frozen. 
Let  the  last  flower  die. 

From  clods  that  smother 
Its  seeds,  toward  a  fairer  sky 

Rises  another. 

O  Darkness !   perhaps  soon 

Here  in  the  deathless 
Path  of  thy  summer  moon, 

I  shall  lie  breathless. 
Though  the  shadow  of  death  is  blue, 

Smile,  thou  immortal! 
And  bear  my  last  sigh  through 

Dawn's  scarlet  portal. 

R.  S.  H. 


40  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

There  is  a  Charming  Land  {Der  er  et  yndigt  Land)  was  prob- 
ably written  in  the  summer  of  1819.  As  a  patriotic  song  it  is 
even  more  popular  than  the  warlike  national  anthem  King 
Christian,  which  is  well  known  to  American  and  English  readers 
through  Longfellow's  translation. 

The  Golden  Horns  (Guldhornene),  written  in  the  summer  of 
1802,  was  published  in  Digte  by  Adam  Oehlenschlager,  1803. 
In  the  village  of  Gallehus,  near  Mogeltonder,  South  Jutland, 
were  found  two  ancient  golden  horns,  one  in  1639  by  a  poor 
lace-girl,  and  the  other  in  1734  by  a  farmer.  They  were  put  on 
exhibition  in  the  Kunstkammer  (Chamber  of  Curiosities)  at 
Copenhagen.  The  night  between  May  4th  and  5th,  1802,  the 
horns  disappeared.  Not  until  a  year  later  was  it  discovered  that 
a  goldsmith  had  stolen  them  and  melted  them  down  for  the 
sake  of  the  metal.  The  wide  discussion  of  this  national  and  his- 
torical loss  inspired  Oehlenschlager's  poem.  The  characters  in 
the  passage  describing  the  sunrise  are  taken  from  the  Northern 
mythology:  "Allfather  took  Night,  and  Day  her  son,  and  gave 
to  them  two  horses  and  chariots,  and  sent  them  up  into  the  heav- 
ens, to  ride  around  the  earth  every  two  half-days.  Night 
rides  before  with  his  horse  named  Frosty-Mane  (Hrymfaxe), 
and  every  morning  he  bedews  the  earth  with  the  foam  from 
his  bit.  The  horse  that  Day  has,  is  called  Sheen-Mane  (Skin- 
faxe)  and  he  illumines  all  the  air  and  the  earth  with  his  mane." 
(The  Prose  Edda  by  Snorri  Sturluson,  tr.  Scandinavian  Clas- 
sics, vol.  V,  1916).  Delling  (Dayspring)  is  the  third  husband 
of  Night  and  father  of  Day. 

Hakon  Jarl's  Death  {Hakon  Jarls  Dod)  was  published  in  the 
volume  of  1803.  Hakon  the  Mighty,  Earl  of  Hladir,  ruled 
Norway  from  975  to  995.  Olaf  Trygvason,  the  descendant  of 
Harald  Fairhair,  first  king  of  Norway,  spent  his  youth  in  exile. 
He  was  baptized  in  England.  In  Dublin,  some  time  later,  he 
heard  rumors  of  the  growing  discontent  in  Norway.  In  995 
he  set  sail  for  Norway,  constituted  himself  the  champion  against 
Hakon's  tyranny,  laid  claim  to  the  throne  by  his  ancient  right, 
and  cherished  the  firm  intention  of  supplanting  the  old  Northern 


ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAGER  41 

paganism  with  Christianity.  Oehlenschlager's  poem  treats  of 
the  last  battle  between  the  old  order  and  the  new,  and  the  end 
of  Hakon  Jarl. 

Valhal  literally  means  "the  Hall  of  the  Slain."  It  was  the  abode 
of  Odin's  champions,  but  the  word  is  often  used,  as  here,  in  a 
wider  sense  as  the  dwelling  of  the  gods. 

The  Norn  was  one  of  the  Northern  Fates.  Hermod,  Odin's  son, 
frequently  acted  as  a  divine  messenger. 

The  Drive  {De  Kjorende),  from  a  little  play  Midsummernight's 
Play  (Sanct  Hansaften-Spil),  describes  a  drive  from  Copenha- 
gen to  the  amusement  grove  in  the  Dyrehave. 

Morning  JValk  {Morgenvandring)  is  one  of  a  cycle  of  poems 
called  The  Trip  to  Langeland  {Langelands-Rejsen)  in  which  the 
poet  describes  his  voyage  during  the  summer  of  1804  to  the 
island  of  Langeland  between  Sjaelland  and  Funen.  Stanzas  3,  4, 
and  S-io  are  omitted. 

Summer  Holiday  {Freidigt  Sommerliv)  is  also  from  The  Trip 
to  Langeland  cycle.    Stanzas  4-9  and  15-18  are  omitted. 

The  Life  of  Jesus  Christ  Symbolized  in  Nature  {Jesu  Christi 
gientagne  Liv  i  den  aarlige  Natur),  a  cycle  of  poems  on  the 
theme  that  nature  is  a  revelation  of  God,  each  season  repeating 
events  in  the  life  of  Christ,  was  published  in  the  Poetical  Writ- 
ings, vol.  I,  of  1805.  In  the  preface  Oehlenschlager  says  that  he 
has  tried  to  show  nature  as  an  annually  repeated  myth  of  the 
divine  Redeemer;  this  myth  would  have  no  possible  meaning, 
did  he  not  himself  believe  in  the  historical  fact  of  the  holy  cul- 
mination. In  the  poem,  therefore,  it  is  necessary  to  have  before 
one's  eyes  simultaneously  Christ  in  time,  in  nature,  and  in  the 
heart,  as  these  aspects  mingle  with  one  another  all  through  the 
work. 

Aladdin's  Lullaby  {Aladdins  Vuggesang)  from  Aladdin.  The 
mad  Aladdin  sings   a  lullaby  to  his  mother  over   her  grave. 

Song  {Sang)  from  Aladdin. 


42  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Cars  ten  Hauch^  1790-1872 

THE  WILD  HUNT 

When  they  thought  that  Denmark's  king 
Soundly  in  the  graveyard  slumbered, 
Words  incredible,  unnumbered, 
Through  the  land  crept  whispering. 
Rumor  said:    "The  king  hunts  nightly 
Stag  and  doe  on  Sjaelland's  isle 
With  a  company  unsightly 
Through  the  country  mile  on  mile." 
They  saw  the  Childe  at  the  head  of  his  hosts; 
In  the  moonlight  they  heard  the  racket 
Of  his  train  of  terrible  shadows  and  ghosts 
With  the  hawk  and  the  sable  brachet. 

Fables  deep  in  Time's  abyss 
From  oblivion  resurrected. 
Champions  in  their  rest  ejected 
From  the  dim  necropolis. 
Women  from  their  hidden  prison. 
Heathen  kings  from  the  sepulchre, 
All  (the  peasants  said)  had  risen 
Forth  to  ride  with  Valdemar. 

Like  wings  the  sound  over  woods  was  borne, 

In  terror  the  dwarf  dug  deeper. 

While  overhead  a  mad  hunting-horn 

Aroused  the  horrified  sleeper. 


CARSTEN  HAUCH  43 

Volmer's  eyes  with  anguish  blazed, 

Never  found  he  rest  and  quiet; 

Ever  in  this  awful  riot 

Must  he  hurry  on  half-crazed. 

Nearest  him,  of  all  the  shadows 

Coursing  over  lake  and  glade 

Through  the  night-mist  of  the  meadows, 

Was  a  pale  and  slender  maid. 
Her  long  hair  flickered  in  the  midnight  blast, 
She  sighed  with  sighs  inhuman; 
On  snow-white  horse  she  galloped  fast, 
The  fairest  of  all  women. 

Over  castle  and  lofty  house. 

Falcon,  raven,  birds  of  evil. 

Unknown  fowl  from  Night  primeval, 

Fat,  enormous  flittermouse. 

Over  forests,  fields,  and  ditches, 

Clustering  pallid  flare  on  flare, 

Wolves  with  hundred  feet,  and  witches 

Sailed  the  river  of  the  air. 
The  hunters'  shouts,  the  thunders'  crash. 
Roared  high  in  the  lust  of  slaughter. 
Through  horses'  whinnies,  the  snap  of  the  lash, 
Above  the  livid  water. 

Just  before  them,  roe  and  hart 
Flew  as  if  on  hidden  pinions 
From  the  ghost-king  and  his  minions, 
Cleaving  the  slow  mists  apart. 


44  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

At  their  head  there  flitted,  leading, 
Tall  and  white,  a  wounded  hind 
Stuck  with  many  arrows,  bleeding, 
Shaking,  in  the  midnight  wind. 
The  peasants  who  saw  the  chase  sweep  by 
Swore,  to  all  who  would  hear  it. 
That  out  of  the  hunted  hind's  wild  eye 
There  peered  Queen  Helvig's  spirit. 

As  in  an  enchanted  space. 

Trees  stood  in  the  vapor  rootless. 

While  the  stag  flew  onward,  footless 

Yet  unwearied  by  the  chase. 

Then  the  black  snake  coursed  the  meadow. 

The  red  dragon  rose  unwombed, 

While  the  storm  wailed  like  a  shadow 

To  eternal  anguish  doomed. 

The  full  moon,  like  a  bleeding  troll. 

Unheeding  the  earth's  ire. 

Cruelly  charmed  each  tortured  soul 

From  out  the  Abyss's  fire. 

Often  when  the  autumn  brought 
Wheeling  gusts  of  phosphorescence 
In  this  dismal  chase,  the  peasants 
Whispered,  pallid  and  distraught: 
"Save  us,  Christ  and  Maid  of  Heaven, 
From  this  evil  by  thy  grace ! 
Save  us  from  the  infernal  levin; 
Save  us:  'tis  King  Volmer's  chase!" 


CARSTEN  HAUCH  45 

They  thought  that  his  doom  was  sealed  for  aye, 

By  no  prayers  to  be  diminished : 

To  hunt  until  the  last  Judgment  Day, 

Till  World  and  Time  were  finished. 

S.  F.  D. 


HOME 

I  REMEMBER  a  far  place,  where  I  would 

gladly  be; 
There,  hours  glided  slowly,  silently, 
As  clear  as  silver  pearls,  strung  on  a  golden  wire, 
And  gentle  as  the  words  of  first  desire. 

The  birds  played  there  all  day  among  the  maple 

boughs ; 
I  lived  as  they  in  one  long  mad  carouse. 
In  my  romping  I  would  scour  the  meadows 

everywhere, 
And  what  the  neighbors  said,  I  did  not  care. 

And  from  the  window  gazing  at  the  high  trees 

above, 
In  later  days  I  dreamed  of  him  I  love; 
And  when  I  heard  his  foot-steps  hastening  to  me. 
My  heart  rose  in  a  silent  ecstasy. 

Beside  the  hedge  of  roses,  we  sat  beneath  the 

moon, 
And  listened  to  the  rivulet's  rippled  tune. 


46  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Our  words,  half  in  earnest,  half  in  fun,  flew  to 

and  fro; 
Which  you  may  have  forgotten  long  ago. 

S.  F.  D. 


CONSOLATION  IN  ADVERSITY 

When  happiness  turns  from  you, 
And  all  seems  unrepaid. 
And  you  are  scorned  by  enemies, 
Even  by  friends  betrayed; 

Then  think  but  little  of  it. 
And  be  not  self-deceived; 
We  are  sent  here  for  labor. 
Though  joy  rests  unachieved. 

But  there,  where  spirits  gather 
On  the  Milky  Way's  vast  wave, 
Where  the  white  swans  of  the  living 
Soar  out  of  Time  and  Grave, 

You  shall  see  revelation 

On  that  irradiant  coast: 

He  holds  the  greatest  happiness 

Who  has  endured  the  most, 


CARSTEN  HAUCH  47 

For  grief  is  but  the  wrong  side 
Of  the  flaming  robe  of  bliss; 
The  eternal  light  is  shadowed 
In  the  dim  springs  of  the  Abyss. 

S.  F.  D. 


THE  PLEIADES  AT  MIDNIGHT 

We  are  the  nightly  weavers 
who  gather  the  invisible  threads 
from  the  Milky  Way's  outmost  ring 
where  the  end  of  the  loom  stands. 

Hovering  apparitions, 

unwearied, 

wingless, 

whose  flight  no  bird 

can  ever  equal. 

For  us,  Time  hardly  has  begun, 

although  the  ephemerae  of  worlds, 

newly  spawned, 

streaming  atoms  in  the  immense  ether, 

dream  of  aeons  and  eternities; 

and  think  that  the  end  is  come, 

though  not  yet  have  they  completed 

a  single  orbit 

round  the  firmly  linked  Daughters  of  Atlas, 

the  bright-eyed 


48  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

whose  glance  gleams  through  the  veil, 

and  who  carry  the  weight  of  innumerable  worlds 

unaware; 

and  who  are  like  to  swelling  grapes 

from  which  streams  the  wine  of  life. 

What  you  call  a  thousand  years 

is  hardly  a  cloven  second 

too  short  for  the  glance  of  our  eyes 

thereby 

to  reach  the  nearest  among  our  daughters 

circling  in  the  ring  of  the  Milky  Way. 

For  us  your  longest  sorrow 

is  barely  one  beat  of  an  ephemera's  wing 

before  quick  death. 

Yet  we  are  also  the  children  of  Time, 

and  even  the  longest  courses 

in  which  shining  worlds  revolve 

count  as  nothing 

against  the  invisible  circle  of  Eternity 

which  the  hours  never  draw  near; 

and  although  we  measure  them 

as  millions  of  years, 

they  are  only  a  stream 

dried  by  a  hot  summer's  day 

compared  to  the  unfathomable  Ocean  of  Infinity 

in  the  realm  of  the  uplifted  spirits 

released  from  the  weight  of  Time.       cur) 


CARSTEN  HAUCH  49 

The  Wild  Hunt  {Den  vilde  Jagt)  is  from  Hauch's  ballad-cycle 
Valdemar  Atterdag,  et  romantisk  Digt  (1861).  The  story  of  the 
loves  of  King  Valdemar  (or  Volmer)  and  Tove,  ending  only 
when  the  queen  burned  Tove  to  death  in  a  bath,  is  a  very  old 
one,  first  appearing  in  the  medieval  ballads.  There  the  story  is 
ascribed  to  Valdemar  the  Great  (1157-1182)  and  his  queen 
Sofie;  but  in  the  sixteenth  century  the  historian  Arild  Hvitfeldt 
{The  Chronicle  of  Denmark)  ascribed  it  to  Valdemar  the  Fourth 
(1340-1375)   and  his  queen  Helvig. 

The  legend  of  the  Wild  Hunt  had  a  separate  origin.  This  is 
found  in  Norway,  Sweden,  Germany,  England,  and  northern 
France,  with  different  versions  for  each  province.  In  eastern 
Sjaelland  it  was  connected  with  King  Volmer  and  linked  to  the 
Tove- Valdemar  legend:  King  Volmer  being  Valdemar  the 
Fourth,  whose  famous  dwelling  place  Gurre  was  there. 
It  is  Hauch's  own  development  of  the  story  to  have  Valdemar 
and  Tove  enjoy  a  postmortem  revenge  by  hunting  Queen  Helvig, 
metamorphosed  into  a  white  hind.  This  romance  has  become  a 
common  theme  of  the  Danish  poets. 

Home  {Hjem),  one  of  Laura's  songs,  from  Robert  Fulton,  1853. 

The  Pleiades  at  Midnight  {Pleiaderne  ved  Midnat)  appeared  in 
1861. 


50  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

N.  F.  S.  Grundtvig,  1783-1872 

DENMARK'S  CONSOLATION 

Far  whiter  mountains  shine  splendidly  forth 
than  the  hills  of  our  native  islands, 
but  we  Danskers  rejoice  in  the  quiet  North 
for  our  lowlands  and  rolling  highlands. 
No  towering  peaks  thundered  over  our  birth : 
it  suits  us  best  to  remain  on  earth. 

Far  lovelier  countrysides  may  be  found, 

as  the  foreigner  truthfully  teaches; 

but  the  Dansker  shall  build  his  home  by  the  Sound, 

with  forget-me-nots  under  the  beeches. 

Our  children  and  sages  together  agree 

on  our  blossoming  field  in  the  tremulous  sea. 

Far  greater  deeds  on  the  battlefield 

are  performed  by  the  foreign-born  scion. 

And  yet  not  in  vain  bears  the  Dane  on  his  shield, 

with  the  Hearts,  the  proud  Lion  by  Lion. 

Let  the  Eagles  contest  the  ball  of  the  earth; 

the  Dansker  stays  true  to  the  flag  of  his  birth. 

Far  cleverer  people  are  living  elsewhere 
than  here,  in  our  small  fraternity; 
but  for  household  use  we  have  brains  to  spare, 
though  our  dreams  do  not  reach  eternity. 


N.  F.  S.  GRUNDTVIG  51 

If  the  heart  burns  for  truth  and  the  right  lifelong, 
time  will  always  show  that  we  were  not  wrong. 

Far  nobler  and  subtler  language  may  swing 

the  foreigner's  spirit  unhalted; 

the  Dansker,  however,  can  truthfully  sing 

about  what  is  fair  and  exalted. 

Though  our  mother-tongue  may  fall  wrong  by  a 

hair, 
it  appeals  more  than  strangers  perhaps  are  aware. 

Far  more  of  rare  metals,  the  white  and  the  red, 
have  strangers,  before  which  they  grovel. 
But  every  Dane  has  his  daily  bread, 
though  he  dwell  in  a  palace  or  hovel. 
And  so  of  our  riches  we  truly  can  vaunt, 
when  few  have  too  much,  with  still  fewer  in  want. 

S.  F.  D. 

THE  HARROWING  OF  HELL 

By  night  there  was  knocking  at  Hell's  lofty  gate 
Which  roared  with  a  terrible  thunder. 
The  Herald  was  mighty,  his  message  all-great; 
The  dead  heard  his  words  in  awed  wonder. 

"To  the  vermin  of  Hell  I  bear  tidings  of  bliss: 
The  Mightiest  Warrior  approaches. 
In  the  dawn  He  leaps  over  the  swallowing  Abyss, 
To  quench  these  loud  wails  and  reproaches ! 


52  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

"He  walks  on  the  coals  as  a  girl  on  green  plains, 
He  scotches  the  snakes  of  the  rivers, 
The  Dragon  He  crushes,  the  Hell-wolf  He  chains, 
While  all  the  Abyss  cracks  and  quivers!" 

Then  rose  on  their  elbows  the  children  of  men, 

Unchecked  by  their  foul  castigators. 

Who  howled  in  their  turn  through  the  blackness,  as 

when 
Earth's  mountains  gush  flames  from  their  craters. 

And  rose  on  their  elbows  the  dead  in  delight, 

Thus  never  before  had  they  hearkened; 

They   watched    all    the    day    and   they    watched 

through  the  night. 
While  the  fires  in  the  dragons'  throats  darkened. 

On  the  third  day  at  dawn,  when  the  Cock  of  Hell 

crowed 
For  all  ghosts  to  return  to  their  dwelling, 
The   pure   rays   of  Heaven   shot   through   their 

abode, 
All  dreams  and  all  visions  excelling. 

Like  a  bright  crowd  of  stars,  in  the  white  rush  of 

snows, 
The  angels  pierced  Hell's  black  pavilion. 
And  swift  as  a  sun,  from  the  depth  He  uprose 
With  cloud-shields  of  gold  and  vermilion. 


N.  F.  S.  GRUNDTVIG  53 

In  Hell  beamed  the  intolerable  Light  of  God's 

Grace, 
Entangling  the  fiends  in  gold  fringes, 
While  the  walls  bent  and  brake  with  the  dance  of 

His  rays. 
And  the  doors  of  Hell  burst  from  their  hinges. 

And  all  the  dead  sprang  once  again  to  their  feet, 

But  only  to  kneel  down  astounded ; 

"Ah,  welcome!    Most  Holyl    thou  Saviour  most 

sweet!" 
From  numberless  spirits  resounded. 

Then:   "Adam,  where  are  you?"  was  heard  in  a 

Voice 
Like  the  lark  on  an  Easterday  morning; 
At  the  call,  all  the  sufferers  began  to  rejoice, 
And  gathered,  their  torturers  scorning. 

Then  Eve  raised  her  voice,  as  she  knelt  by  the 

Lord, 
And  said:   "Oh  my  Son  and  my  Saviour, 
I  only  am  cause  that  we  lie  here  abhorred, 
All  were  damned  through  my  wanton  behaviour! 

"The  Serpent,  now  writhing  and  crumpling  in  fire. 
Shone  bright  in  the  Tree  of  the  Mystery. 
He  glided  in  gold  and  invoked  my  desire; 
Together  we  turned  the  world's  history. 


54  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

"He  whispered  the  words  which  seduced  me  so 

well: 
'As  the  gods,  ye  shall  know  good  and  evil' ; 
But  pallid  and  blue  we  were  hurried  to  Hell, 
And  were  bound  in  the  realm  of  the  Devil. 

"But  if  You  are  the  Seed  which  was  promised  to 

me, 
Conceived  and  born  of  a  woman. 
Then  the  Mother  in  vain  shall  not  cling  to  your 

knee, 
But  be  saved  by  the  God  who  is  Human." 

From  her   eyes  two  large   tears  like   two   suns 

trickled  down, 
And — oh  deed  of  ineffable  merit! — 
With  shimmering  hues  in  the  form  of  a  crown, 
An  arc  hovered  over  Eve's  spirit! 

The  Light  kissed  His  Mother;  the  spirits  beneath 
Cried  out,  for  they  saw  the  rays  freshen; 
And  uprose  as  a  Queen  in  her  rainbow  wreath 
Fair  Eve,  who  repented  transgression. 

And  myriads  and  myriads  of  miles  deeper  down 
Sank  the  fiends,  while  the  fair  Eve  ascended. 
They  did  not  dare  howl — bit  their  lips  with  a 

frown — 
And  quaked,  till  the  earth  was  tormented. 


N.  F.  S.  GRUNDTVIG  55 

Then  the  Conqueror  soared  to  the  heavenly  fields 

With  the  host  of  all  those  who  adore  Him ; 

Like  the  sun  on  the  clouds,  He  was  carried  on 

shields ; 
The  carolling  prophets  upbore  Him. 

And  triumphs  replaced  all  the  grief  and  the  hate. 
Only  Death  stayed  alone  in  damnation. 
The  Cherub  swung  wide  the  sealed  Paradise  gate, 
While  the  guards  shouted  loud  adoration. 

Thus  splendidly  rose  on  the  third  day  our  God, 
Redeeming  all  grief  and  all  evil; 
And  wherefore  on  earth  it  is  subject  for  laud 
That  He  harrowed  the  realm  of  the  Devil. 

S.  F.  D. 


DAY  SONG 

With  what  rejoicing  do  we  see 
The  sun  has  at  last  ascended 
And  shines  on  the  ocean  steadily 
And  makes  the  whole  world  splendid, 
While  we,  his  sons,  cry  jubilee 
That  night,  long  night,  is  ended. 

Our  God  descended  into  birth 

At  the  black  midnight  hour, 

Then  brightened  through  the  east  with  mirth 


56  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Into  dawn's  scarlet  flower. 

So  the  Light  rose,  in  which  the  earth 

Glows  with  eternal  power. 

If  every  leaf  on  every  tree 
Could  shout  with  a  tongue  of  fire, 
They  could  not  cry  out  worthily 
The  Grace  of  God's  Desire, 
Since  Life  now  shines  eternally 
For  all  the  world  entire. 

Now  God  be  lauded  for  His  might ! 

We  sing  like  larks  of  heaven 

Drenched  in  the  dawn  He  raised  from  night, 

In  Life  freed  from  death's  fetter; 

This  blessed  day  of  Jesus'  Light 

Makes  all  mankind  the  better. 

Our  feast-day  strides  across  the  land 
Wreathed  with  the  zenith's  splendors. 
Its  hours  at  the  Lord's  command 
Ripple  like  brooks  in  the  meadows. 
Till  joyously  at  last  they  wind 
Under  the  linden  shadows. 

The  early  morning  is  like  gold 

When  day  from  death  arises ; 

Yet  evening,  crimson-aureoled. 

Has  lovelier  surprises. 

Kissing  the  heart  which  once  was  cold 

To  dreams  past  all  surmises. 


N.  F.  S.  GRUNDTVIG  57 

Then  we  start  for  our  father-land, 
Where  day  is  ever  springing; 
There  is  the  castle  proud  and  grand 
With  joy  forever  ringing; 
There  gladly  through  Eternity 
With  friends  shall  we  feast,  singing. 

S.  F.  D. 


Denmark's  Consolation  {Danmarks  Triist),  written  in  1820,  was 
Grundtvig's  first  national  song.  The  last  two  stanzas,  as  is 
usual,  have  been  omitted. 

The  Harroiving  of  Hell  (/  Kveld  blev  der  banket  paa  Helvedec 
Port)  is  hymn  243  of  the  Sang-Vark  til  den  danske  Kirke,  1837. 
In  a  note,  Grundtvig  indicates  the  influence  of  Caedmon's  Para- 
phrase of  the  Scriptures,  which  is  often  transcribed  word  for 
word.  There  is  also  the  strong  influence  of  Scandinavian 
mythology.  Christ  appears  as  a  Northern  hero ;  Fenris  the  Hell- 
wolf,  and  the  Hell-cock  are  mentioned. 

In  Day  Song,  the  varying  of  rhyme  with  assonance  is  in  accord- 
ance with  the  original. 


58  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

B.  S.  Ingeman,  1789-1862 

MORNING  SONG 

The  sun  at  dawning  rises  up 
And  bathes  the  clouds  in  gold, 
Sails  over  sea  and  mountain-top, 
Sails  over  hill  and  wold. 

It  rises  from  the  shining  shore 
Where  Paradise  once  lay. 
To  small  and  great  it  bears  once  more 
The  life  and  light  of  day. 

It  hails  us  with  a  glad  salute 
From  Eden's  morning  glow. 
Where  stood  the  Tree  of  deathless  fruit, 
Whence  life's  fair  fountains  flow. 

It  hails  us  from  the  home  of  them 
Who  sought  the  wandering  light, 
The  Star  that  over  Bethlehem 
Led  wise  men  through  the  night. 

And  from  the  east  a  glorious  host 
Of  rays,  and  on  the  seas, 
A  gleam  from  that  celestial  coast 
Where  grow  life's  apple  trees. 

The  stars  kneel  slowly,  one  by  one ; 
The  great  sun's  diadem 


B.  S.  INGEMAN  59 


To  them  yet  seems  the  star  that  shone 
On  sleeping  Bethlehem. 

Thou  Sun  of  suns  from  Bethlehem 

Who  gave  men  sacrifice, 

Pour  light  from  thy  first  home  on  them, 

And  from  thy  Paradise. 

R.  S.  H. 


EVENING  SONG 

There  stands  a  castle  in  the  west 

Sheathed  with  shields  of  gold; 

There  seeks  the  sun  his  nightly  rest 

Within  the  bright  stronghold. 

No  mortal  hand  has  raised  those  high 

Flame-towers  richly  gilded. 

That  portal  stretched  from  earth  to  sky- 

These  God  himself  has  builded. 

A  thousand  pinnacles  shine  clear, 
The  amber  gate  swings  wide. 
Tall  columns  span  the  atmosphere. 
Gleam  mirrored  in  the  tide. 
The  sun  stands  on  the  golden  stairs 
Mantled  in  purple  fire. 
The  flag  of  light  triumphant  flares 
From  the  tremendous  spire. 

Messengers  of  the  sun  will  toss 
Afar  that  banner  of  light, 


6o  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Guiding  life  and  the  dawn  across 

The  whispering  sea  of  night. 

Sun  and  life  renew  their  powers 

Behind  Death's  promontory, 

And  the  sun  comes  back  to  the  eastern  towers 

Of  Paradise,  in  glory.  R  S  H 


EVENING  SONG 

The  sun  in  beauty  left  the  hill. 
Now  rise  the  stars'  bright  legions, 
Lamps  of  a  world  more  glorious  still, 
Charting  the  darker  regions. 

Night  is  a  vast  cathedral  hung 
Between  the  arching  spaces, 
The  world,  a  hidden  leaf  among 
A  forest's  secret  places. 

The  smallest  leaf  in  deepest  wood 
Where  creatures  live  securely; 
Each  fashioned  in  the  mind  of  God, 
Blessed  and  remembered  surely. 

That  mind,  that  hand,  where  great  and  small 
Are  one,  shall  always  cherish 
The  hidden  soul  whose  leaf  may  fall 
Away,  but  shall  not  perish. 

R.  S.  H. 


B.  S.  INGEMAN  6i 

EVENING  SONG 

The  huge  and  silent  Night  now  comes 
With  lights  of  scattered  fire, 
Each  light  a  sun  to  countless  homes 
In  vaster  vales  and  higher. 

Into  the  depths  of  heaven's  sea 
The  night  her  wings  immerses, 
While  chants  the  starry  psaltery 
From  radiant  universes. 

0  Night,  speed  forth  thy  worlds  that  sail 
The  everlasting  river, 

While  holy  stars  and  mortals  hail 
With  praise  the  great  Life-giver. 

R.  S.  H. 

HOLGER  DANSKE'S  ARMS 

Wherever  the  battle  started 
In  the  many  lands  I  knew, 

1  fought  on,  open-hearted. 
For  what  I  thought  was  true. 

My  helmet  bore  the  eagle. 
My  armour  the  cross  revealed. 
Salient  lions  and  regal 
Hearts  adorned  my  shield. 


62  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

When  my  gauntlet  challenged  the  foeman, 
I  raised  my  visor  high, 
And  then  he  was  sure  that  no  man 
But  Holger  the  Dane  was  nigh. 

If  the  wandering  Dane  seeks  merit, 
Yet  hides  his  name  and  face, 
That  man  is  false  of  spirit, 
That  man  will  I  not  embrace. 

R.  S.  H. 


Holger  Danske's  Arms  {Holder  Danskes  Marke)  is  from  Inge- 
mann's  ballad-cycle  on  Holger  Danske  (1837).  The  legend  of 
Holger  Danske,  or  Ogier  le  Danois,  goes  back  to  French  me- 
dieval poetry  where  the  Northern  knight  is  pictured  as  one  of 
Charlemagne's  champions.  His  story  was  popularized  in  Den- 
mark through  ballads,  and  especially  through  The  Chronicle  of 
King  Olger  Danske  {Kong  Olger  Danskes  Krbnic)  1534,  a  para- 
phrase of  Ogier  le  Danois  by  Chr.  Petersen,  one  of  the  greatest 
Danish  writers  of  the  Reformation  period.  Holger  Danske  has 
become  the  Danish  national  hero.  His  legend  is  very  similar  to 
that  of  King  Arthur,  and  includes  the  prophecy  of  a  return  or 
second  coming.  In  Holger  Danske  Ingemann  describes  the  ideal 
Danish  characteri 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  63 

Foul  M.  M'dller,  1794-1838 

JOY  OVER  DENMARK 

Roses  proudly  glow  in  Dana's  bowers ; 
Horses  graze  where  sleep  heroic  dead; 
Bees  distill  the  sweetness  from  the  flowers; 
Starlings  scatter  notes  in  silver  showers; 
Children  gather  berries,  ripe  and  red. 

Here  between  the  shadows  of  the  shifting 
Ocean  never  come  the  budding  springs; 
Only  heavy  whales  go  slowly  drifting, 
While  the  silent  seagulls  hover,  lifting 
Quarry  from  the  waves,  with  moveless  wings. 

Friends  afar  in  shining  Danish  summer. 
Do  you  hail  your  comrade  any  more  ? 
Here  the  tropic  wind,  a  tireless  drummer. 
Beats  against  the  sails,  and  this  newcomer 
Dreams  of  native  fields  by  Dana's  shore. 

East  or  west,  however  far  I  wander, 

I  will  think  of  you  by  Denmark's  Sound; 

Even  where  Constantia's  vineyards  squander 

Splendid  beauty,  I  imagine  yonder 

Bright  Charlotte's  beechwood,  summer-crowned. 

Monks  in  hovels  of  Manila  grumble, 
"Denmark  is  a  little,  beggar  land." 
Java's  sons  confirm  it,  even  humble 


64  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Pedlars  of  Batavia  scornfully  mumble, 
"Denmark  is  a  little,  beggar  land." 

Slaves  of  silk-clad  Orientals  hear  them 

Stir  their  fans  in  torrid  discontent, 

With  their  heartless,  jeweled  mates  that  fear  them, 

Gorgeous  birds,  but  not  a  song  to  cheer  them, 

Gaudy  tinsel  flowers  that  have  no  scent. 

Could  you  buy  the  faith  of  Northern  maiden 
With  the  promise  of  a  golden  boon  ? 
Buy  a  gust  of  sea-waves  fragrance-laden. 
Clover  fields  for  slumber,  or  a  glade  in 
Denmark's  fields  to  dream  away  the  noon? 

Poor  men  who  have  ploughed  their  Danish  furrow 
Shake  the  fruit  from  their  own  orchard  trees; 
Mind  and  body  quick  at  work  and  thorough. 
Corn  and  milk  aplenty  for  to-morrow ; 
Heifers  drowse  in  grass  up  to  their  knees. 

Denmark's  soil  is  rich,  her  sons  laborious; 
There  are  virtues  in  the  Danish  bread; 
Wherefore  Danish  courage  is  so  glorious, 
Wherefore  was  the  Northman's  sword  victorious, 
Wherefore  is  the  Danish  cheek  so  red. 

Let  the  Master  of  the  East,  reclining 
With  his  purchased  women,  doze  and  nod. 
Listen  to  the  eunuchs'  voices  whining 
Through  the  columns  echoing  and  twining, 
While  he  dozes,  an  exhausted  god. 


POUL  M.  MOLLER  65 

Underneath  the  beech,  the  Danish  lover 
To  the  loveliest  repeats  his  vows. 
Drifting  moonlight  showers  white  above  her; 
Mirrored  swans  on  haunted  waters  hover; 
Nightingales  sing  loudly  in  the  boughs. 

If  such  things  be  poverty's  true  measure, 
Silk-clad  eastern  prince,  I  understand; 
Then  I  break  my  Danish  bread  at  leisure, 
Thanking  God,  I  too  exclaim  with  pleasure, 
"Denmark  is  a  little,  beggar  land  I"    o  c  rj 


THE  OLD  PEDANT 

Through  the  walled   streets,   past  habitation, 

steeple. 
Thief-like,  here  I  have  crept  to  play  my  own 
Peculiar  hide-and-seek  among  the  people, 
Yet  always  limping  desperately  alone. 

There,  see !   How  casually  that  youth  advances 
To  watch  the  girl  with  rose-blood  in  her  smile ! 
The  courage  of  those  half-reverted  glances ! 
And  I,  disheartened,  spy  on  them  the  while. 

There  is  no  use  in  spending  so  much  money 
For  fashionable  coats  to  make  me  gay; 
They  hang  on  me  as  tragically  funny 
As  scarecrows  set  to  keep  the  birds  away. 


66  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

These  nankin  trowsers  that  shone  out  so  whitely 
When  they  were  bought  a  mere  fortnight  ago 
Are  ruined  with  my  ink,  are  quite  unsightly. 
No  marvel  I  am  shy,  when  they  look  so ! 

My  sleeves  wear,  where  they  rub  upon  the  table. 
My  cuffs  will  crease,  no  matter  what  they  cost ; 
Writing  the  very  best  that  one  is  able, 
For  credit  won,  is  other  credit  lost. 

Ah !  lovely  girls,  lingering  through  the  garden, 
I  am  no  candle,  smothered  in  its  reek. 
No,  you  are  wrong :  my  heart  shall  never  harden ; 
It  still  is  warm,  only — I  cannot  speak. 

My  withered  soul  immediately  grows  tender 
Watching  your  laughing  wreath  linked  arm  and 

hand; 
And  bashfully  I  worship  your  light  splendor 
From  out  this  corner,  where  in  shame  I  stand. 

For  in  my  depths  I  am  forever  finding 
A  fire,  though  hidden  in  death's  livery. 
As  a  book  holds  within  its  withered  binding 
Great  pages  of  the  rarest  poetry. 

So  the  one-legged  soldier's  adoration 
Follows  the  laughing  women  at  a  ball. 
He  dances  with  them  in  imagination 
Although  his  mangled  flesh  can  hardly  crawl. 

Ah  I  if  my  goddess,  Pallas,  would  but  scatter 
Some  dark  cloud,  that  invisible  I  might  roam  I 


POUL  M.  MOLLER  67 

- — How  long  I  linger  here  shall  never  matter; 
Profecto,  I  eventually  go  home. 

However,  courage  I   Brave  heart  wins  the  beauty. 
I  dare  to  leave  this  corner,  tempt  the  smile. 
So,  while  my  good  stick  does  its  daily  duty, 
I  plod  unheeded  through  the  gay  defile. 

S.  F.  D. 


THE  MASTER  AMONG  THE  RIOTERS 

A  BROWN,  ponderous  building 
In  the  broadest  square  remains. 
Whose  spire  of  tarnished  gilding 
Soars  above  colored  panes. 
The  gables  its  adorner 
Has  carved  with  pard  and  bear. 
Impassive  in  a  corner, 
It  braves  the  city's  stare. 

A  row  of  chestnuts  rarely 
Their  intricate  green  so  weaves 
That  the  spring  breezes  barely 
Turn  the  five-fingered  leaves; 
And  through  this  foliation 
The  sun-rays  fall  in  bars. 
Sprinkling  the  tesselation 
With  little  silver  stars. 


68  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Teaching  and  creating, 
Here  the  Master  dwells, 
Steadfastly  liberating 
Dreams  from  their  marble  shells. 
Clay  gods  on  the  shelving, 
Stone  gods  on  the  floor; 
But  his  deep  vision  delving 
Sees  countless  visions  more. 

The  chequered  floor  he  paces 
Nervously,  to  and  fro. 
To  pause  at  his  pupils'  places 
And  watch  their  concepts  grow. 
Gladly  he  helps  the  clever, 
Showing  new,  subtle  ways ; 
But  for  the  faint  endeavor 
He  has  no  word  of  praise. 

His  strong  right  arm  outstretching 
Stripped  from  shoulder  to  wrist. 
He  sets  them  all  to  sketching; 
Noting  the  muscles'  twist 
Like  eels  entwined  and  squirming 
Caught  in  a  fisher's  mesh. 
And  livid  sinews  worming 
Their  way  within  the  flesh. 

From  invisible  creation. 
Dreams  crowd  down  to  earth 
And  flood  his  imagination. 
Demanding  visible  birth. 


POUL  M.  MOLLER  69 

He  snatches  for  his  brushes 
Before  the  dreams  are  fled; 
See  how  his  strong  hair  pushes 
The  sculptor's  cap  from  his  head  1 

But  the  very  youngest  pupil 

Does  not  leave  him  in  peace; 

He  jumps  up,  without  scruple 

Demanding  his  release : 

"We  can't  remain  here,  sitting 

Like  helpless  prisoners, 

With  mobs  in  the  streets  committing 

Glorious  massacres  1 

"Rebellion's  splendid  standard 
Through  the  proud  air  lowers; 
Tyrants,  and  all  who  pandered 
To  their  unrighteous  powers, 
Flee  before  the  storming 
Of  bludgeon  and  fowling-piece. 
Harkl  how  the  mobs  swarming 
Shout  songs  of  our  great  release  I 

"To-day  the  masses  are  righting 
The  wrongs  of  our  native  land. 
And  those  too  young  for  fighting 
Should  watch  them  close  at  hand." 
"Are  you  so  curious,  fellow? 
Go  to  the  window  then, 


70  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

And  hear  the  drunken  bellow 
Of  your  ideal  menl" 

Thus  speaks  the  angry  Master; 
But  the  tumult,  louder  swelling, 
Threatens  instant  disaster 
Within  his  quiet  dwelling. 
Among  his  gods  and  vases 
The  mob  streams  from  the  fray 
With  ghastly,  blackened  faces 
And  coats  turned  the  wrong  way. 

They  are  covered  with  bloody  bruises 
And  slashes,  from  sword  and  lance. 
While  flames  like  dangerous  fuses 
Flash  from  glance  to  glance. 
Their  spokesman  steps  to  the  Master 
Feeling  hot  scorn  arise; 
The  bitter  hate  leaps  faster 
Through  the  cold  stones  of  his  eyes. 

"You  girl!   Have  you  no  spirit? 
Have  you  no  decent  shame 
With  such  strength  not  to  share  it, 
And  win  eternal  fame  ? 
In  the  Arts'  entangling  honey 
You  stagnate  to  the  core. 
Break  these  gods  carved  for  money ! 
And  be  a  man  once  more  I 


POUL  M.  MOLLER  7i 

"These  dolls  make  patrons  languish 
In  transports  of  delight; 
But  it  is  the  People's  anguish 
That  supports  the  Sybarite. 
Rise  up,  redeem  your  errors  1 
A  blow ! — and  you  are  free  I 
One  hungry  day  of  terrors, 
Then  money  plenteously  I 

"Forward  1    Shatter  their  power! 
Honest  rebel,  enroll! 
This  is  the  crucial  hour 
In  which  to  save  your  soul !" 
The  Master  answers  unyielding, 
Keeping  his  heart-beats  down: 
"No  man  shall  see  me  wielding 
Arms  in  my  native  town. 

"I  scorn  your  crazed  disorder 
Because  I  am  as  free 
With  holy  Law  for  warder 
As  any  god  could  be. 
In  the  Law's  copper-castle 
The  artist's  place  is  sure. 
Though  hireling  and  vassal 
Blow  rebellion's  Luur. 

"Should  the  Prince  need  my  power, 
I'd  be  the  last  to  hide : 


72  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

You'll  find  me  in  that  hour 
Fighting  by  your  side. 
My  Prince  will  make  you  rue  this 
Mad  insult  to  his  throne; 
And  though  he  could  not  do  this, 
I  can  defend  my  own. 

"Get  out  of  here  with  your  lances! 
Quietly,  too;  or  soon, 
If  you  take  any  chances, 
You'll  sing  another  tune!" 
The  leader  scowls,  and  quickly 
Beckons  them  to  begin. 
The  eager  swords  flash  thickly; 
The  house  roars  with  the  din. 

The  marble  dreams  fall,  shattered 
In  the  first  wave  of  war. 
Their  glimmering  fragments  scattered 
Over  the  chequered  floor. 
Just  once  the  leader  beckoned ; 
And  the  work  of  a  Master's  life 
Was  crushed  in  a  single  second 
Of  incoherent  strife! 

"Fool !  Pander  who  hastens 
To  fawn  upon  the  great! 
Now  see  how  the  People  chastens 
The  poor  emasculate!" 
Mute,  with  a  ghastly  pallor. 


POUL  M.  MOLLER  73 

He  gazes  at  floor,  at  shelf, 
Caught  beyond  thought  of  valor, 
A  broken  statue  himself. 

Then,  his  whole  body  shaken 
At  the  sight  of  his  ruined  home. 
His  eyes  at  last  awaken; 
His  tense  lips  spit  forth  foam. 
The  crowd  laughs  at  his  action; 
Yet  it  recoils  back. 
And  the  white  teeth  of  the  faction 
Stand  out  against  the  black. 

The  Master's  eyes  revolving 
Whirl  like  double  wheels; 
The  whole  world  is  dissolving. 
His  reason  shudders,  reels. 
Gasping — nearly  fainting — 
He  sees,  like  an  iron  rod, 
A  club  used  in  the  painting 
Of  some  destroyed  half-god. 

He  swings  the  club  insanely 

Three  times  through  the  air. 

He  springs!     They  crowd  back  vainly 

In  uncontrollable  fear. 

The  mighty  club  descending 

Crashes  with  blows  of  lead; 

In  turn,  each  stops  contending 

To  nurse  his  broken  head. 


74  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

As  when  a  maddened  Malay 
In  Java  runs  amuck, 
While  men  and  women  palely 
Fall  limp  where  they  are  struck, 
So  the  infuriate  Master 
Upon  the  rabble  springs; 
His  blows  whirl  fast  and  faster, 
Like  a  windmill's  wings. 

With  shouts  and  groans  and  hollos, 
The  whole  mob  runs  away. 
And  livid  Vengeance  follows 
To  strike,  like  a  bird  of  prey. 
At  once  the  house  is  quieter: 
There  lie  before  the  door 
One  radical  young  rioter. 
One  paralyzed  editor. 

The  youngest  pupil  gladly 
Stays  at  the  window-sill : 
"How  the  whole  city  madly 
Shouts  with  the  lust  to  kill ! 
Freedom  shall  be  victorious; 
The  plunder-laden  boys 
Rest  with  their  spoils  in  the  glorious 
Roar  of  jubilant  noise. 

"They  pass  a  drawer  of  raisins; 
— They  can  reward  themselves ! — 
And  there  the  tradesman  hastens 


POUL  M.  MOLLER  75 

To  mourn  his  empty  shelves. 
'What  did  you  find  in  the  gutter?' 
That  slut  is  asked  by  her  rough. 
'Here's  baby-linen,  butter, 
Coffee,  lemons,  and  snuff.' 

"Already  they  pass  the  bottles; 

I  see  wine  froth  and  splash. 

And  there  a  patriot  throttles 

A  tradesman  for  his  cash. 

But  the  Master ! — how  they  fear  him  I 

He  rushes  in  a  storm, 

And  everybody  near  him 

Writhes  like  a  trodden  worm  I" 

Now,  into  the  battle 
Rides  the  Prince's  Guard; 
They  close  with  the  bellowing  cattle ; 
The  fight  grows  bitter  and  hard. 
Here  they  force  back  the  rebels, 
There  they  are  beaten  down, 
While  all  the  tumult  trebles 
In  the  misguided  town. 

Insensate,  the  Master  rushes 
Down  length  on  length  of  streets, 
And  horribly  he  crushes 
What  enemies  he  meets. 
Blinded,  with  merciless  laughter. 
He  clears  a  bloody  path; 


76  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

The  whole  crowd  follows  after, 
But  echoing  his  wrath. 


Quiet  .  .  .  The  moon  from  hiding 
Soars  through  the  clouds'  foam 
And  shines  on  the  soldiers  riding 
With  music  to  their  home. 
They  pass  into  the  distance  .  .  . 
Still  over  the  shimmering  roofs 
With  delicate  insistence 
Echo  their  horses'  hooves. 

The  Master,  pallid,  moody, 
Sits  on  a  road-side  stone., 
The  strong  right  arm  is  bloody; 
He  prays  with  inner  moan. 
He  is  drained  of  all  his  powers, 
The  lids  sink  over  his  eyes. 
And  so  he  dreams  for  hours 
With  heavy,  desperate  sighs. 

He  is  white  from  the  disaster. 

— Then  t'he  dream  suddenly  wanes, 

For  beside  the  sorrowing  Master 

The  Prince  draws  his  purple  reins. 

He  asks  him  to  rise  from  the  boulder; 

Praises  are  softly  told; 

And  he  drops  on  the  Master's  shoulder 

A  chain  of  woven  gold. 


POUL  M.  MOLLER  77 

"Of  all  who  fought  unswerving 
In  the  day  of  our  distress, 
You  are  the  one  most  deserving 
This  token  of  manliness; 
For  you  unbidden  proffered 
An  arm  that  would  not  yield; 
To  your  native  town  you  offered 
Your  own  breast  as  a  shield." 

"My  Prince,  keep  all  this  splendor," 
The  pallid  man  replies: 
"Never  as  a  defender 
Will  I  accept  such  prize. 
I  did  not  go  displaying 
My  strength  with  this  design; 
To-day  you  saw  me  straying 
In  realms  that  were  not  mine. 

"I  am  a  faithful  member 
Of  the  sovereignty  of  Art. 
I  shudder  to  remember 
This  day — my  bloody  part. 
The  thought  of  it  will  darken 
My  other  world's  clear  beams; 
In  peace  I  cannot  hearken 
To  the  music  made  by  dreams. 

"At  home  I  live,  a  muser 
Far  from  the  city  stir, 


78  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Not  acting  as  accuser 

Nor  executioner. 

But  now  in  the  dark  will  linger 

The  memory  of  this  brawl, 

And  trace  with  awful  finger 

Its  writing  on  the  wall."         „   p,  ^ 


Joy  over  Denmark  {Glade  over  Danmark)  was  probably  com- 
posed at  Manila  in  July,  1820,  during  Paul  Moller's  trip  to  the 
east  by  way  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope — a  trip  which  he  made 
in  the  capacity  of  a  ship's  chaplain.  Charlottes  Bogelund,  in 
stanza  4,  refers  to  the  beech  grove  in  Charlottenlund,  a  small 
seaside  place  a  few  miles  north  of  Copenhagen.  The  poet  plays 
on  the  name  Constantia;  he  means,  of  course,  the  town  on  the 
Cape,  but  Constantia  is  also  the  name  of  a  well-known  restaurant 
near  Charlottenlund. 

The  Old  Pedant  {Den  gamle  Pedant).  This  poem  was  found 
in  Paul  Moller's  notebook  which  he  had  in  China,  and  was  pub- 
lished posthumously  with  five  others,  under  the  title  Scenes  from 
Rosenborg  Park.  This  is  a  public  promenade  in  Copenhagen. 
The  old  pedant  is  a  favorite  figure  in  Paul  Moller's  works. 

The  Master  among  the  Rioters  {Kunstneren  mellem  Oprorerne), 
Paul  Moller's  last  poem,  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1837  as  a 
protest  against  the  growing  political  radicalism  of  France  and 
Germany,  signalized  not  only  in  their  poetry,  but  in  the  July 
Revolution  as  well.  In  one  of  his  reviews  of  1836,  Paul  Moller 
wrote:  "The  period  in  the  history  of  European  poetry  which 
one  might  name  after  Goethe,  moves  on  towards  its  evening; 
and  the  poetry  of  the  present  time  mostly  belongs  to  one  of  two 
opposite  categories:  one,  a  dull  echo  of  the  vanishing  Greco- 
German  school;  the  other,  the  political  night-school  with  its 
jarring  watchman's  cry  which  still  seems  to  be  far  from  the 
morning  call." 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  79 

Christian  Wintker,  1796-1876 

A  SUMMER  NIGHT 

Above  the  beech's  crown 

A  young  star  gazes  down 

Upon  the  darkening  forest  shadow-haunted. 

Through  copse  and  hazy  vale 

Strangely  the  nightingale 

Sings  her  old  threnody  twilight-enchanted. 

The  lengthening  shadows  twist 

And  glide  away  in  mist 

Across  the  fens'  disconsolate  expanses. 

The  rose's  petals  part 

And  on  her  open  heart 

The  lily  breathes  a  dream  of  old  romances. 

Do  you  remember  how 

Under  the  blossoming  bough 

Where  the  lark  sang,  we  wakened  in  the  fire 

Of  the  spring  dawn,  and  saw 

Each  other,  half  in  awe, 

Half-gladdened  with  the  glance  of  new  desire? 

Together  here  embowered 

We  two  have  grown  and  flowered, 

And  soon  the  storm  will  scatter  us  in  ashes. 

Yet,  in  the  nights  to  be. 


8o  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Our  love's  divinity 

Will  sunder  darkness  with  eternal  flashes. 

Happy,  without  a  word, 

The  rose-tree  never  stirred. 

But  folded  up  the  secret  in  her  spirit. 

Only  the  silver  sheaves 

Of  starlight  on  the  leaves ; — 

Love  knows  her  answer;  love  alone  can  hear  it. 

A  trembling  breath  of  air 

Shook  the  trees'  tangled  hair. 

Over  the  sky  the  flush  of  morning  started. 

The  stars  closed  sleepy  eyes 

And  vanished  from  the  skies. 

And  night,  the  gentle  friend  of  grief,  departed. 

O  earth,  let  me  confess 
My  love-inspired  guess 

To  you,  great  Motherheart,  my  hope  and  anguish. 
Let  my  lorn  spirit  creep 
Into  your  breast,  and  sleep 

Where  sorrow  sings  and  joy  alone  can  languish. 

R.  S.  H. 

"FLY,  BIRD,  FLY" 

Fly,  bird,  fly,  over  Furresoen's  billows; 

Twilight  is  gathering  grey. 

Palely  the  light  in  the  waterside  willows 


CHRISTIAN  WINTHER  8i 

Slants  to  the  westward  away. 

Winds  in  the  darkening  forest  are  warning 

Younglings  and  mate  of  the  night; 

Fly  to  them  now,  but  come  back  in  the  morning, 

Tell  what  you  saw  in  your  flight. 

Fly,  bird,  fly,  over  Furresoen's  surges. 

Follow  two  lovers  a  while. 

Fashion  your  song  from  their  music  that  merges 

Laughter  and  sorrow  and  guile. 

Singer  I  am,  and  my  song  must  recapture 

All  of  Love's  secret  deceit; 

Sing  of  the  torment,  interpret  the  rapture, 

Conquest  and  bitter  defeat. 

Fly,  bird,  fly,  over  Furresoen's  heaving. 

Love  has  recalled  you  again. 

Perch  in  the  bush  where  the  nightwind  is  weaving ; 

Sing  her  eternal  refrain. 

Ah,  if  I  too  could  but  swim  in  the  ether. 

Straight  would  I  fly  to  my  goal ; 

She  is  the  star;  in  the  forest  beneath  her 

Darkness  is  flooding  my  soul. 

Fly,  bird,  fly,  over  Furresoen's  spaces 

Vague  in  the  thickening  blue. 

Far  on  the  opposite  margin  she  paces. 

Love  who  is  watching  for  you. 

Slender  and  young  as  the  corn  in  the  meadow. 

Hair  like  a  flicker  of  light, 


82  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Black  eyes  as  deep  as  the  forest  in  shadow, — 
O,  you  will  know  her  at  sight. 

Fly,  bird,  fly,  over  Furresoen's  dashing. 

Darkness  draws  breath  with  a  sigh. 

Desolate  trees  are  swaying  and  lashing 

Turbulent  boughs  on  the  sky. 

What  of  Love's  song?  could  you  listen  and  hear  it 

There  with  your  flock  on  the  wing? 

Sing  a  goodnight  to  my  tremulous  spirit, — 

Surely  you  know  what  to  sing.  t^   c   u 


THE  NIGHT  WAS  KINDLY  AND  VAST 

The  night  was  kindly  and  vast, 

Quiet  and  shrouded; 

Jewelled  skies  overcast. 

Stars  overclouded. 

We  were  so  greatly 

Alone,  while  the  stately 

Branches  over  the  window  were  swinging; 

Everything  softly  singing. 

We  were  so  greatly  alone. 
We  and  our  spirit. 
Sorrow's  story  was  done; 
We  could  not  hear  it. 
Memoried  storms 


CHRISTIAN  WINTHER  83 

And  devouring  worms 

Lay  slumbering  deep  in  the  caves  of  the  mind ; — 

To  all  things  but  one,  we  were  blind. 

Out  of  life's  scattered  dreams, 

Consummate  fire. 

Out  of  our  separate  dreams. 

Single  desire. 

Tendrils  that  fashion 

One  vine  of  passion, 

One  joy,  one  hope,  one  vision,  all  making 

One  heaven  for  our  love's  awaking. 

Dreamingly  lulled  to  and  fro 

Like  the  tide  turning 

Over  the  sea  with  a  low 

Murmur  of  yearning. 

Softly  we  greeted  ^ 

The  star  that  completed 

Our  union,  so  longed  for,  so  richly  begun; 

Heart  to  heart,  everlastingly  one. 

R.  S.  H. 


OVER  THE  OCEAN'S  BARREN  MEADOW 

Qv^ER  the  ocean's  barren  meadow 
Hovers  a  bird,  restless  and  mute; 
Has  it  not  built  in  the  rose's  shadow? 
Has  it  not  pecked  at  the  ripening  fruit? 


84  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Ah,  but  a  voice  echoes  persistent 
With  every  beat  of  the  little  heart, — 
O  to  be  Home  I  to  be  home  in  the  distant 
Beloved  coast,  and  never  depart  I 

Frightened,  the  antelope  runs  through  the  dreary 
Sand  of  the  desert,  on  flying  feet, 
Never  pausing,  never  weary, 
Driven  by  thirst's  unquenchable  heat. 
Now  the  fountains  of  life  are  gushing, 
Now  they  have  vanished,  and  blazing  breath 
Consumes  his  being,  and  drives  him  rushing 
On  and  on  to  a  desert  death. 

Do  you  see  the  stream  from  the  mountain,  pouring 

Over  the  cliff  with  foam  and  flash? 

Now  it  winds,  and  now  goes  roaring 

Surely,  agilely,  down  with  a  dash. 

Where  is  the  goal  for  its  restless  spirit? 

Deep  below  us  opens  its  grave 

Where  the  river,  the  broad  calm  river,  will  bear  it 

Sighing  out  to  the  long  seawave. 

Withered  colours,  I  drop  my  brushes. 
Weak  pictures,  my  pencil  has  snapped. 
The  strings  are  mute,  my  voice  hushes. 
Silence  is  all R    S   H 

Fly,  Bird,  Fly   (Flyv  Fugl,  fiyv).     Furresoen  is  a   lake  a  few 
miles  north  of  Copenhagen. 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  85 

Ludvig  Bodtcher,  1793-1874 
HARVEST  MEMORY 

Let  others  in  their  rapture  hail, 

0  May  I  the  pleasures  you  disclose ; 
upon  your  tiny  breast  the  rose, 
upon  your  wrist  the  nightingale. 

But  I  shall  weave  my  wreath  for  you, 
brown  Harvest,  in  the  sunset  dew, 

when  the  steady,  strong 

lilt  of  the  long 
scythes  is  blent  with  the  throstle's  song. 

1  drink  your  breezes  clear  and  cold, 
which  as  pale  wine  enliven  me, 
poured  by  a  hand  of  faerie 

into  a  goblet  chased  with  gold. 

Sweet  my  rest  on  the  sheaves  of  grain ; 

above  me,  heaven's  deepening  stain, 

where  a  light  cloud, 

whose  small  sails  crowd, 
steers  its  long  voyage  purple-prowed. 

And  when  in  loneliness  I  stroll, 
a  thought  each  minute  drops  free-given, 
a  falling-star  slides  down  from  heaven 
and  breathes  its  longing  through  my  soul. 
Then  Venus  charms  my  straying  gaze 


86  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

with  the  dim  magic  of  her  rays; 

and  as  I  brood, 

across  my  mood 
you  glimmer,  love,  in  the  solitude. 

And  when  in  the  late  evening 
the  light  is  lost  beyond  the  hill, 
the  wood-bird  finishes  his  trill, 
resting  his  flute  beneath  his  wing, 
then  you  are  also  laid  aside, 
my  little  lute,  my  friend  well-tried; 

you  rest  concealed 

behind  the  shield 
of  a  wing,  till  the  spirit  soars  revealed. 

S.  F.  D. 

MEETING  WITH  BACCHUS 

Like  children  in  the  cradle 
Frascati's  tender  flowers 
lay  sucking  the  dewy  showers ; 
I  started  on  my  way, 
turning  my  donkey's  bridle 
towards  far  Mount  Porzia. 

■    Pleasantly  to  my  hearing 
the  fountains  leapt  and  rippled, 
their  sound  in  the  ruins  tripled 
like  the  "Ssh !"  of  ancient  days 


LUDVIG  BODTCHER  87 

when  Cicero  was  clearing 

his  throat  at  an  opening  phrase. 

The  little  sparrows  crazily 
flirted,  joked,  and  scudded; 
my  rambling  donkey  studied 
the  brown  road-sand  beneath, 
then  tossed  his  wise  head  lazily 
and  grinned  with  his  yellow  teeth. 

And  if  he  paused  in  his  roving, 
my  castanets  (which  often 
in  the  long  nights  would  soften 
some  hard  mood  with  their  cheer) 
startled  him  into  moving 
when  I  shook  them  at  his  ear. 

And  thus,  all  hurry  scorning, 
now  slower  and  now  faster, 
grinning,  both  beast  and  master, 
we  traveled  at  our  ease, 
and  saw  in  the  red  of  morning 
Villa  Dragoni's  trees. 

The  flaming  sunrays  under 
the  boughs  were  softly  sifted. 
A  hawk  flew  down  and  drifted 
leisurely;  though  there  slunk 
a  peering  Roman  hunter 
behind  a  rugged  trunk. 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Upward  we  struggled  cheerfully 

while  the  heat  blazed  intenser; 

the  honeysuckle's  censer 

grew  sweeter  as  we  neared 

the  cliffs  where  the  goat  climbed  fearfully, 

munching  with  his  beard. 

And  while  my  donkey  throated 
his  bray,  I  heard  in  climbing 
the  early  mass-bell  chiming 
down  from  the  town  perched  high, 
as  if  the  far  sound  floated 
cloud-like  in  the  sky. 

It  was  a  scene  for  a  drama : 
the  vines,  the  golden  mountain's 
vale  with  its  ruined  fountains — 
my  eyes  shut  tranquilly 
to  let  the  panorama 
sink  in  my  memory. 

I  saw  that  town  which  dated 

from  Cato,  the  old  Roman, 

and  felt  a  thirst  uncommon; 

for  the  grape  which  Horace  praised 

was  well  anticipated 

while  such  a  sunrise  blazed. 

The  donkey  slowly  loitered, 
drowsy  with  my  own  dreaming ; 


LUDVIG  BODTCHER  89 

for  both  of  us  were  deeming 

the  way  long,  the  day  young. 

Wisely  he  reconnoitered 

and  stopped  where  the  Bush  was  hung. 

The  heated  haze  pervaded 
everything  with  its  fullness; 
yet  what  delicious  coolness 
in  those  arcaded  boughs, 
as  though  a  wreath  were  braided 
dewily  on  my  brows  I 

A  cistern  deep  and  chilly 
centered  the  drinking-room. 
Glad  at  the  welcome  gloom, 
Icriedone  "Evoel" 
and  clear  as  a  trumpet,  shrilly 
the  depths  re-echoed  three. 

Songs  were  roared  in  snatches 
round  Bacchus's  old  altar 
by  half-gods  fit  for  the  halter, 
whose  chatter  blazed  with  life; 
their  coats  hung  loose  in  patches, 
and  loosely  hung  the  knife. 

A  youth  was  stretched  beside  me 
upon  the  bench  day-dreaming. 
His  distant  smile  rose  gleaming 
so  strangely  from  the  heart 


90  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

that  his  face  seemed  to  guide  me 
down  ancient  paths  of  Art. 

He  wore  exquisite  sandals, 

and  lolled,  for  the  day  was  torrid ; 

one  hand  upheld  his  forehead, 

the  other,  with  its  glass, 

lay  nude  between  the  candles, 

a  carving  of  Phidias. 

My  call  arose,  contending 
against  the  Italian  lungs. 
"Wine!"  was  upon  all  tongues. 
"Wine!"  I  yelled  thirstily; 
and  from  the  deep  grotto  wending, 
they  bore  the  god  to  me. 

I  poured  the  cooling,  scented 
streams  into  the  cup 
and  held  the  color  up 
against  the  glare  outside; 
then,  utterly  contented, 
I  felt  the  liquid  glide. 

And  when  my  eyes  descended, 

the  youth  smiled  unabashed; 

no  midnight  ever  flashed 

so  strong  a  starry  play ! 

My  eyes  were  caught  and  blended 

in  their  delightful  sway. 


LUDVIG  BODTCHER  91 

He  watched,  wholly  enraptured, 
my  ecstasy  in  lingering. 
Deliberately  fingering 
the  flask,  again  I  poured; 
his  words  I  barely  captured : 
"Fi  piace?"  I  heard. 

When  in  response  I  duly 
praised  the  grape  of  the  mountain 
and  poured  its  golden  fountain 
once  more  in  a  streak  of  flame, 
his  "Non  c'e  male"  coolly 
and  indolently  came. 

I  repeated:   "Non  c'e  male?! 
Show  me  un  megliore!" 
He  smiled  back:   "Si,  signore!" 
"Than  this?"  was  my  reply. 
"Si,"  he  returned,  "per  Bacco! 
Un  meglio  assail" 

He  rose  immediately 

and  at  the  door  he  beckoned. 

I  followed;  and  in  a  second 

the  strong  day  sparkled  round. 

He  glided  delicately, 

yet  firmly,  without  a  sound. 

I  felt  no  hot  road  burning 

while  watching  his  sandals'  motion 

of  which  words  give  no  notion, 


92  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

and  now  and  then  his  smile, 
when,  at  his  proud  neck's  turning, 
I  glimpsed  his  clear  profile. 

We  stopped  at  his  tiny  dwelling, 
a  ruin  of  other  ages, 
whose  lonely  stones  in  stages 
were  raised  ruddy  and  warm, 
half  lost  within  the  swelling 
folds  of  the  ivy's  arm. 

He  touched  a  rusty  portal, 
which  opening,  betrayed 
stairs  leading  down  through  shade. 
I  passed  from  the  day's  light 
and  shuddered  in  the  immortal 
cold  of  the  mountain  night. 

The  way  grew  dull  and  duller; 
I  groped,  needing  assistance. 
A  lamp  at  a  far  distance 
stood  by  the  stairs'  foot, 
casting  a  vague  rose-color 
through  the  nocturnal  soot. 

I  saw  his  shade  already 
gigantically  reeling 
about  on  walls  and  ceiling 
in  the  cave's  dusky  air, 
while  I  crept  on,  unsteady, 
down  the  descending  stair. 


LUDVIG  BODTCHER  93 

His  quick  hands  fluttered  whitely 

to  prove  his  hospitality 

by  pouring  new  vitality 

into  a  row  of  lamps 

whose  many  moons  shone  brightly 

against  the  mountain  damps. 

Astonished  I  beheld  them: 
seven  splendid  casks  of  wine 
carved  over  with  the  vine, 
which  woke  again  my  drouth. 
The  grotto's  arc  encelled  them 
as  in  a  giant's  mouth. 

They  lay  like  fettered  powers 
immemorably  enchanted 
in  those  far  ages  haunted 
by  the  dim  wing  of  Night, 
before  our  years  and  hours 
were  measured  by  the  light, 

A  figure  from  some  old  story, 
the  nameless  youth  stood  smiling, 
and  held  with  his  grace  beguiling 
a  goblet  glimmering. 
"Let  us  begin,  signoreP' 
echoed  a  bell's  clear  ring. 

I  saw  his  hand's  dim  lustre 
plunge  with  a  Vampire  motion 
into  the  hidden  ocean 


94  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

a  syphon's  gleaming  shape, 

which  sucked  from  a  former  cluster 

the  blood  of  a  single  grape. 

The  half-perceptible  eddy 
of  its  rose-colored  splendor 
blushed  as  shyly  tender 
as  the  first  passionate  kiss. 
Ah  I  the  price  was  already 
won  for  such  wine  as  this  I 

Again  his  hand's  dim  lustre 
plunged  with  the  vampire  motion 
into  a  second  ocean 
the  syphon's  gleaming  shape, 
which  sucked  from  another  cluster 
the  blood  of  a  bigger  grape. 

I  felt  the  great  bestowment 

of  lion's  heart-blood  sweeping. 

There  is  no  such  crimson  weeping 

in  the  hot  ruby's  zones. 

With  the  courage  of  that  moment 

I  could  have  captured  thrones ! 

Again  the  syphon's  measure 
plunged  with  the  vampire  motion 
and  sucked  from  the  hidden  ocean 
a  tiny  bunch  this  time. 
He  laughed  with  secret  pleasure 
at  the  pouring,  liquid  chime. 


LUDVIG  BODTCHER  95 

I  heard  the  bright  wine  ripple 
like  distant  cymbals  clinking. 
I  thought  that  I  was  drinking 
deeply  on  Helicon ; 
only  Olympian  tipple 
was  fair  comparison. 

While  I  exulted,  praising 
God  Bacchus  high  in  heaven, 
the  next  three  of  the  seven 
the  laughing  youth  passed  by; 
and  toward  the  last  cask  gazing, 
he  hastened  merrily. 

In  rich  apotheosis 

leapt  a  cascade  of  fires 

like  rushing  of  leafy  lyres ; 

and  then  its  full  perfume 

of  jasmine  and  red  roses 

spread  through  the  grotto's  gloom. 

He  poured  it  higher,  quicker; 

its  hissing  snow  raced  storming 

into  the  goblet,  forming 

a  foamy  pyramid 

which  crowned  the  radiant  liquor 

Then — "Eccolof"  he  said. 

I  drank.    My  eye  was  captured 
by  the  bubbles'  stream  and  ramp ; 


96  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

it  was  a  mystical  lamp, 
a  magical  veil  bepearled; 
and  so  I  stared  enraptured 
into  another  world. 

It  seemed  in  my  fascination 
that  pillars  rose  in  thunder 
fitting  their  shoulders  under 
the  huge  curve  of  a  dome, 
while  ivied  decoration 
festooned  the  ancient  home. 

A  subtle  mist  came  creeping; 
casks  vanished  from  their  places. 
Lol  yellow  leopard  faces 
gleamed  from  the  shadow  dimly; 
seven  gold  leopards  sleeping, 
their  paws  outstretching  grimly. 

Stupefied  at  the  glamour, 

I  looked  up.    He  was  leaning 

on  a  thyrsus.     His  smile's  meaning 

grew  terrible,  august; 

and  I  could  only  stammer: 

"DionysiusI"  from  the  dust.  .  .  . 

I  had  fallen;  there  was  riot; 
but  swooning  from  the  welter, 
I  woke  in  the  wood's  shelter 
beside  a  tiny  spring. 


LUDVIG  BODTCHER  97 

About  me  there  was  quiet, 
and  it  was  evening. 

His  long  ears  drooping,  by  me 
my  donkey  waited  lonely. 
(How,  the  god  Bacchus  only 
can  say!)     His  open  eye 
in  slumber  seemed  to  spy  me 
stupidly,  drowsily. 

It  was  futile  and  unpleasant, 
a  spiritual  treason, 
to  listen  to  my  Reason 
making  its  baffled  guess: 
"He  was  some  vineyard  peasant; 
it  was  but  drunkenness." 

"A  drinking-bout  with  peasants," 
aloud  I  repeated  after; 
then  sounded  a  low  laughter 
close  by  a  tree's  root. 
Distinctly  I  glimpsed  a  presence, 
the  shape  of  a  goaty  foot. 

I  leapt  from  my  fern-couch,  fluttering 
with  indescribable  panic; 
my  donkey  felt  the  tyrannic 
urge  of  my  heels  and  goad, 
while  they  pursued  us,  muttering 
along  the  dusky  road. 


98  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

They  did  not  cease  their  vexing 
till  we  saw  Frascati  gleam; 
then  it  melted  into  a  dream, 
a  riddle,  a  fairy  play. 
Nothing  proved  more  perplexing 
in  all  Hesperia. 

Later  I  made  endeavor 

to  find  him.     I  persisted 

until  what  hope  existed 

wore  itself  out  in  vain ; 

he  disappeared  forever. 

I  never  saw  him  again,     c  p  r) 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  99 

Emil  Aarestrup,  1 800- 1856 

THE  SLEEPER 

The  coaches  rolled  on  the  driveway 
Before  the  white  colonnade 
Reflected  in  the  water 
With  its  flowered  balustrade. 

I  timidly  stood  on  the  flagstones 
Which  long  cloud-shadows  swept, 
By  a  pane  beneath  an  awning 
Where  a  caterpillar  crept. 

I  gazed  in  through  the  window 
To  see  what  I  could  spy 
Within  the  fragrant  temple 
Blue  as  a  summer  sky. 

And  there  I  saw  you  sleeping 
In  deep  abandonment, 
And  round  your  dreaming  head 
Your  ivory  arms  were  bent. 

And  there  I  saw  you  sleeping 

On  cushions  of  old  brocade, 

And  high  round  your  dreaming  head 

Your  dazzling  arms  were  laid. 

S.  F.  D. 


loo       A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

A  MORNING  WALK 

J-'ATELY  it  had  been  raining 
It  was  near  eight  o'clock. 
With  little,  bright  galoshes 
You  trod  the  gravel  walk. 

I  followed  your  dear  footsteps 
Through  the  park's  poplar  wood, 
And  saw  two  black  snails  crawling 
After,  as  fast  as  they  could. 

I  found  your  small  glove,  keeping 
The  print  of  your  hand's  form, 
Among  the  strawberry  creepers. 
Forgotten  and  still  warm; 

And  where,  among  the  acacias, 
A  god  stands  silently, 
I  saw  you  fling  your  elbow 
Upon  his  marble  knee; 

— And  hidden  by  cool  shadows 
Read  the  page  with  tears 
Which  your  long  distant  lover 
Had  sent  across  the  years; 

— Press  kisses  on  the  paper; 
— Almost  embrace  the  stone. 
I  gazed  at  the  chestnut  branches. 
And  felt,  as  the  sea,  alone; 


EMIL  AARESTRUP  loi 

And  thought:    "Would  I  were  hanging 
Strangled,  like  that  field-fare 
Whose  mangled  body  dangles 
In  the  inescapable  snare."  s  F  D 


FEAR 

Hold  tight,  press  closer  to  me 
With  your  young,  rounded  arms; 
Hold  tighter,  while  your  firm  heart 
Still  pulses  and  still  warms. 

Too  soon  we  fall  asunder 

Like  berries  of  the  hedges; 

Soon  disappear,  like  bubbles 

At  the  brook's  pebbly  edges.       c  p  r) 


EARLY  PARTING 

It  was  the  early  morning. 
A  soldier  knelt  sad-faced. 
Binding  a  scarf  of  purple 
Around  the  baron's  waist, 

And  handed  him  his  broad-sword, 
His  helm  with  its  horse-hair  plume. 
Shining,  as  though  but  newly 
It  came  from  the  armor-room. 


I02  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

And  forward  led  his  stallion, 
A  chestnut  twelve  hands  high, 
Who  turned  upon  its  master 
A  melancholy  eye, 

And  in  the  gold-embroidered 
Holsters,  the  soldier  placed 
With  blackened  hands  the  pistols, 
Rebuckling  straps  in  haste. 

The  baron  mounted  slowly, 
His  visage  drawn  and  stern, 
Then  said  with  low  voice:  "Hendrik, 
If  I  should  not  return, 

" — Which  very  well  may  happen — 
Saddle  your  horse,  and  take 
These  letters  to  deliver: 
My  honor  is  at  stake." 

Sparks  rose  beneath  the  stallion 
Darting  from  whence  he  stood; 
The  black  crows  sprang  up  crying 
In  a  curve  across  the  wood.  .  .  . 

A  distant  shot  re-echoed — 
Another,  only  one — 
While  in  the  higher  azure 
Mounted  the  steady  sun. 


EMIL  AARESTRUP  103 

It  wore  on  to  the  evening; 
And  the  old  castle  hall 
Flared  from  its  slender  windows 
The  brilliance  of  a  ball. 

To  music  the  cupbearer 
Throughout  the  golden  shine 
Bore  in  glittering  crystal 
The  clear  and  purple  wine. 

A  beautiful  young  maiden, 
Fair  as  a  bayadere, 
Suddenly  left  in  dancing 
Her  black-clad  cavalier. 

She  heard,  listening  intently, 
— Of  all,  she  heard  alone — 
The  hollow  sound  of  hoof-beats 
Clink  on  the  courtyard  stone. 

Her  breath  came  deep  and  quickly 
She  shook  throughout  her  soul. 
Oblivious  of  the  trumpet 
And  the  kettledrums'  loud  roll. 

She  peered  out  of  the  window. 
And  in  the  dusk  saw  pass 
Across  the  light  from  the  castle 
A  helmet,  a  cuirass. 

And  she  ran  down  the  staircase. 
The  gold  comb  flew  from  her  hair. 


104  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Also  her  wreath  of  flowers, 
Leaving  her  head  bare. 

It  was  not  the  one  she  expected; 
The  sorrowing  dragoon 
Handed  her  a  letter 
Under  the  sinking  moon. 

She  broke  the  letter  open — 
In  dizzy  shadows  drowned — 
And  lay  like  a  lovely  statue 
Stretched  along  the  ground. 

•  ••••• 

It  Is  the  early  morning. 

The  sunrays  slant  through  the  air 

And  tinge  the  old  lady 

Asleep  in  her  easy  chair. 

The  peach  trees  and  the  almonds 
Fill  the  garden  with  bloom ; 
But  her  skin  is  as  faded 
As  an  alabaster  tomb. 

Her  epitaph  is  written 
In  wrinkles  on  her  brow; 
Her  pallid  hands  are  folded 
In  perfect  quiet  now. 

The  cockatoo  in  pity 
Bends  its  yellow  head, 


EMIL  AARESTRUP  105 

Forgetting,  as  it  watches, 
To  nibble  at  its  bread. 

On  the  high  wall's  red  damask, 
A  portrait  stretches  itself; 
An  urn  offers  it  flowers 
Below  from  the  mantel  shelf. 

And  there  he  stands  as  living : 
His  blue  eyes  sad  and  chaste, 
With  the  long  scarf  of  purple 
Bound  round  his  slender  waist; 

With  fresh  lips,  clustered  love-locks, 
A  being  of  innocence, 
Shining  with  youth  and  heaven 
As  when  he  vanished  hence ; 

But  with  a  hint  of  smiling, 

Half  wistful,  half  afraid: 

"Love  me;  and  yet  remember 

I  am  a  dream,  a  shade."         o   t^  t^ 
'  S.  F.  D. 


RITOURNELLES 

More  beautiful  than  Leda,  you  lean  on 
The  plane-tree  rising  by  the  tepid  lake ; 
And  now,  dragged  by  your  beauty,  comes  the  swan. 


io6  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

The  doddering  deacon  shall  not  be  forgiven, 
His  endless  sermon  was  abomination; 
Yet  sitting  by  your  side,  I  was  in  heaven. 

O  button  liberated! 

If  you  are  found,  then  you  will  be  more  useful 

Than  all  the  happiness  I  have  created. 

"Farewell,"  she  said:  "Farewell!"     There  was  a 

crying 
In  the  sound  of  her  words — a  burst,  a  shudder, 
Like  the  last  gasp,  before  man  stiffens,  dying. 
In  the  head's  falling,  the  arms'  sad  depression, 
In  the  slow  quenching  of  the  gaze  of  parting, 
There  was  a  tear-drenched  funeral  procession. 
But  in  the  ultimate  kiss  was  a  forecasting; 
For  in  our  fingers'  long  and  silent  pressure 
We  pledged  the  dedication  everlasting. 
And  in  our  sorrow's  mastery  and  retention. 
Even  in  the  dark  tears  of  our  resignation. 
There  was  a  Resurrection  and  Ascension. 
As  through  these  myrtles  the  cascade  Is  leaping. 
So  through  the  dusky  shadows  of  our  passion 
The  long,  unresting  memory  falls,  weeping. 

You  fixed  a  pansy  in  my  coat — ^just  one. 

The  swallows  darted  black  across  the  ground; 

A  thunder-cloud  swelled  up  before  the  sun. 


EMIL  AARESTRUP  107 

A  double  rainbow  shone  in  that  dark  hour; 

But   your    two    arms   seemed   glimmering   more 

brightly, 
Holding  an  Alpine  rose  out  in  the  shower. 

Pause  by  the  flowers  in  this  lonely  corner ! 

They  might  get  angry  with  you;  for  all  beauties 

Are  easily  offended  by  the  scorner. 

To  yonder  grove  of  cypresses  grey-hearted, 
Come  with  me;  and  for  a  murdered  passion, 
While  the  bells  toll,  read  prayers  for  the  departed. 

You  must  not  think  that  I  have  grown  the  stranger 
Because  so  cautiously  I  watch  your  features: 
You  know,  the  greater  beauty,  the  more  danger. 

Your  calm  instruction  long,  long  shall  I  treasure : 
That  passion  always  makes  each  pang  the  greater, 
At  the  same  time  diminishing  each  pleasure. 

A  stream  of  words  among  the  quiet  flowers 
Pearled  from  our  lips  madly,  impetuously: 
Can  you  remember  the  subject  of  those  hours? 

As  the  nightingale  sings,  where  he  is  nested, 
Not  to  betray  his  great  desire  and  passion. 
But  in  pretense  that  he  is  disinterested; 


io8  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

So  we  two  most  cunningly  would  smother 

Our  thoughts  beneath  the  glib  tongue's  intonations, 

Each  of  us  hiding  something  from  the  other. 


"My  love  is  everlasting,"  murmured  Clara, 
Sprinkling  her  window-boxes  in  the  morning. 
The  watering  pot  whispered:  "I'm  Niagara  !" 

S.  F.  D. 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  109 

Hans  Christian  Andersen,  1805-1875 
THE  DYING  CHILD 
Mother,  I  must  sleep,  I  am  so  tired; 
Let  me  fall  asleep  upon  your  heart. 
Don't  cry  so — Oh,  mother,  you  must  promise, 
For  your  teardrops  make  my  own  cheek  smart. 
It  is  so  cold;  and  outside  it  is  storming, 
But  in  my  dreams  the  loveliest  country  lies, 
Filled  with  crowds  of  little  angel-children 
Who  play  with  me  when  I  have  shut  my  eyes. 

Mother,  do  you  see  the  angel  waiting? 
Is  there  singing  on  a  distant  chord? 
Look,  the  angel's  two  wings  shine  so  whitely, 
Surely  he  received  them  from  our  Lord. 
What  is  all  the  green  and  red  and  yellow? 
They  are  flowers  dropping  from  the  sky. 
Shall  I  have  big  wings  like  the  good  angel 
Now;  or  must  I  wait  until  I  die? 

Oh,  why  do  you  squeeze  my  hand  so  tightly? 

Why  do  you  put  your  cheek  to  mine,  and  moan? 

It  is  wet,  and  yet  it  burns  like  fire. 

Mother,  I  shall  always  be  your  own. 

Now  you  must  not  sob  so  any  longer; 

When  you  cry,  I  grow  as  sad  can  be. 

I  must  close  my  eyes — I  am  so  tired — 

Mother — look  I — the  angel's  kissing  me. — S.  F.  D. 

The  Dying  Child  {Det  dbende  Barn)   1828,  was  H.  C.  Ander- 
sen's first  published  poem. 


no  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Frederik  Paludan-Muller,  1809-1876 

TO  THE  STAR 

To  thee,  thou  spacious,  star-encircled  night 
Whose  rays  blend  softly  like  a  flowing  sea, 
Thou  citadel  builded  of  golden  light, 
Crowning  the  forehead  of  eternity, 
Untrod  dominion  far  beyond  our  sight. 
Where  Hope,  the  pioneer,  alone  is  free, — 
To  thee  the  rarest  secret  is  revealed 
That  the  soul  garners  in  this  shadowed  field. 

Almighty  tongue !  through  starry  choirs  that  sound 
The  praise  of  One  by  myriad  worlds  addressed 
With  floods  of  perfect  harmony  that  bound 
The  hidden  zone  of  Beauty's  covered  breast; 
Light  ever  re-enkindled  in  profound 
Voids  of  the  dark,  high  Heaven  made  manifest, 
Glass  of  the  infinite  where  worlds  are  wrought 
By  the  reflection  of  God's  single  thought! 

Thou  who  art  dark  and  light,  concealed  and  clear, 
Veiled  night,  with  words  of  secret  power  inlaid 
And  borne  in  majesty  from  year  to  year, 
O  read  that  script  to  me,  I  am  afraid ! 
Thou  hast  undone  the  creed  that  banished  fear. 
Thou  hast  crushed  down  Hope's  timid  growing 
blade, 


FREDERIK  PALUDAN-MULLER         m 

Read  me  the  scroll  that  blazes  on  thine  arc, 
Life  over  death,  flame  sentinel  of  dark! 

— Unending  strength,  work  never  once  deterred, 
And  pleasure  higher  than  world-pain  is  deep; 
Mind  of  our  mind,  and  memory  whose  word 
Shall  quicken  us  among  the  halls  of  sleep ; 
Heart  of  our  heart,  when  Love  has  overheard 
Our  grief,  and  comes  to  comfort  them  that  weep ; 
Absolute  Form  for  the  immortal  soul ; — 
Thus  Hope  interprets  thy  close-written  scroll. 

But  veils  hang  over  thee  who  art  alone 

The  one,  the  never-penetrated  veil; 

The  soundless  harmonies  of  yonder  zone 

Sow  doubt  with  us  where  Time  shall  wield  the 

flail. 
— This  light  is  only  yours  when  you  are  gone; 
This  life,  when  you  are  lying  mute  and  pale. — 
Thus  hast  thou  spoken  with  that  unknown  speech 
Whose  inner  sense  surmise  may  never  reach. 

Yea,  ocean  of  the  sky  that  has  no  end, 
Who  is  like  thee  on  earth?  and  thou,  in  turn, 
Of  the  great  One  whom  none  may  comprehend. 
Art  but  the  glass  where  his  reflections  burn. 
In  vain  with  guesses  of  thy  vast,  we  spend 
Our    time-bound    thoughts    that   blazing   planets 
spurn; 


112  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Only  the  mind  compares  with  thee  in  scope ; 
Mind,  the  Idea ;  thou,  source  of  light  and  hope. 

Spirit  in  dust,  that  claims  thee  as  its  kin, 
Goes  forth  to  meet  thee  at  the  starry  hour; 
Lays  down  its  burdens,  trusts  in  thee  to  win 
Its  long  denied  desire,  for  thou  art  power. 
Thou  foldest  the  worn  flier  deeply  in 
Thy  still  abyss ;  thou  givest  him  the  flower 
Of  contemplation,  and  the  flowing  streams 
Of  life  to  water  his  half-withered  dreams. 

In  thy  great  realm  of  stars,  which  star  is  mine? 
Which  star  entangled  in  that  radiance? 
The  child  once  laughed  with  joy  to  see  it  shine. 
And  felt  new  vigour  in  its  crystal  glance. 
The  star  that  Fate  once  gave  to  be  my  sign 
Through  all  the  comets  wild,  unmeasured  dance, 
The  star  that  means  my  happiness  on  earth, 
My  future  house,  the  watcher  at  my  birth? 

O  were  it  thou !  my  star,  whose  light  burned  there 
Clear  through  the  heaven's  outspread  firmament. 
Whose  metred  glory  through  the  upper  air 
Moved  on,  while  golden  thousands  came  and  went ! 
Above  all  others,  lonely,  proud,  and  fair; — 
O  were  it  thou  whose  healing  draught  was  sent 
To  quench  my  thirst  and  soothe  me  from  afar, 
Thou  radiant  world,  thou  quiet  lonely  star ! 

R.  S.  H. 


FREDERIK  PALUDAN-MULLER         113 

THE  PEARL 

Why,  you  ask  me,  have  I  gold  no  longer? 
Why  do  I  go  wandering  frankly  poor? 
I,  whose  splendour  dazzled  like  the  sunrise 
Proudly  pouring  gold  upon  the  moor? 
Thus  you  question ;  this,  then,  is  the  answer : 
Fate  spoke  her  inexorable  command, 
Sent  me  forth  from  my  untroubled  dwelling, 
Drove  me  out  across  the  troubled  land. 

Traveling  thus,  one  day  when  I  was  weary 
Suddenly  my  eyes  beheld  a  pearl. 
Just  when  I  was  sickened  with  earth-pleasures, 
Sorrows,  and  life's  unavailing  whirl. 
Such  a  vision  no  man  has  imagined, — 
Never  such  a  living  wreath  of  rays. 
Never  such  a  clear,  transparent  lustre, 
Never  such  a  pure,  triumphant  blaze. 

Not  my  eyes  alone  were  thus  enchanted ; 
In  my  heart  as  well  there  seemed  to  grope 
Through  the  dark,  the  light  of  consolation, 
Through  desire's  regret  the  beams  of  hope. 
When  my  eyes  beheld  that  sudden  splendour. 
Then  my  spirit  tasted  joy;  there  went 
Swords  of  sunlight  cleaving  through  the  shadows, 
Streams  of  gold  through  earth's  impoverishment. 

Money  in  my  hand,  I  sought  the  owner. 
"Any  sum!"  I  cried,  "that  it  be  minel" 


114  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

In  the  end  I  paid  him  all  my  fortune, 
All  my  mortal  riches  for  divine. 
Everything  I  gave  for  my  desire, 
Everything  I  gave,  and  from  his  door 
Wandered  forth  a  beggar, — but  the  radiant 
Pearl  is  with  me,  priceless  as  before. 

R.  S.  H. 


TWO  SONNETS 

(From  the  "Alma  Sonnets"  series  in  Adam  Homo) 
I 

Here  shall  I  sit  and  write  you.    It  is  late. 
The  red  sun  dives  beneath  the  distant  trees; 
Bushes  and  leaves,  lulled  faintly  by  the  breeze, 
Merge  in  the  dusk  where  night's  dark  sentries  wait. 

Sleep  softly  enters  through  the  garden  gate. 
Closes  the  wells  of  fragrance  where  the  bees 
Have  hummed  all  day;  but  sweet  with  memories 
The  pale  night  violet  wakes  in  hidden  state. 

Love,  when  our  lives  move  westward  with  the  sun, 
And  light  is  slanting  dimly  through  the  brake 
From  that  deep  verge  where  all  our  days  have  set. 


FREDERIK  PALUDAN-MULLER         115 

Then,  from  our  closing  dreams,  a  single  one 
Shall  rise  above  the  sleepers,  and  awake 
With  fragrance  like  the  pale  night  violet. 


II 
You  set  me  pondering  the  other  day 
When  you  demanded  what  my  thoughts  would  be 
If  you  should  change  your  mind,  and  suddenly 
Choose  some  one  else  as  bride,  and  go  away. 

If  love  should  flee  your  heart,  and  every  ray 
Faded,  Beloved,  from  the  living  tree. 
With  blurred  eyes  gazing  back,  then  should  I  see 
Lost  Eden  vanish  in  eternal  grey. 

But  though  all  faded  that  I  hoped  to  win ; 
Though  the  swift  whistling  arrows  of  my  pain 
Stabbed    me;    though    I    were    humbled    to    the 
ground ; — 

Yet,  I  should  be  like  some  old  violin 
That  broken  once,  and  mended,  sings  again 
With  softer  tone,  but  with  a  weaker  sound. 

R.  S.  H. 


ii6  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

THE  TRUMPET  OF  DOOM 

Kneel,  kneel,  O  earth,  in  sackcloth  and  in  ashes, 
Throw  off  your  mask  of  pride.    The  zenith  flashes 
With  keen-winged  hosts  cleaving  the  clouds  asun- 
der. 
Doom  breaks  in  thunder. 

Down,  down  in  dust,  all  things  that  earth  has 
gilded. 

All  stones  of  Nature,  walls  that  art  has  builded, 

All  spires  that  pride  has  raised  for  Man's  seduc- 
tion, 

Marked  for  destruction. 

Down,  down  in  dust,  to  drain  death's  bitter  chalice, 
High  heads  of  fame,  small  hearts  of  brooding 

malice, 
Down,  Mighty  Names,  and  in  the  darkness  render 
Your  outworn  splendour. 

Forth,  forth  to  be  revealed  before  the  spacious 
Light,  O  you  hidden  monsters,  and  ungracious 
Lurkers  in  caverns  of  unholy  moonlight; 
Forth  to  the  noon-light. 

Forth,  forth,  from  every  heart's  most  secret  por- 
tals. 

You  smouldering  dreams,  you  flaming  lusts  of 
mortals, 


FREDERIK  PALUDAN-MULLER         n? 

And  you,  O  hope,  in  some  old  sorrow  rooted, 
Whose  sigh  is  muted. 

Up  from  the  tomb,  pale  memories,  dark  traces 
Of  hidden  sins.     Rise  up,  you  tear-stained  faces 
And  mouldy  skeletons  and  beauties  crumbled, 
Whom  Death  has  humbled. 

Up  from  the  tomb,  you  dead  of  vanished  nations, 
And  you,  the  quick,  and  you  last  generations, 
Come  forth  where  all  the  shadows  that  have  flat- 
tered 
Your  souls  are  scattered. 

Stop  in  mid-orbit,  World,  in  life's  full  flower, 
And  you,  O  Time,  fold  up  your  final  hour. 
Down  from  eternity's  triumphant  halls 
The  trumpet  calls.  R    S  H 


To  the  Star.     Last  stanzas  of  the  first  song  from  The  Dancer 
{Danserinden)  1832. 

The   Trumpet  of  Doom  from  Ahasuerus,  the   Wandering  Jev; 
{Ahasverus,  den  evige  Jode)   1853. 


ii8  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

y.  p.  Jacob  sen,  1847-1885 

AN  ARABESQUE 

Have  you  wandered  bewildered  in  darkening  for- 
ests? 
Have  you  known  Pan? 
I  once  was  smitten; 
not  in  the  sombre  forests 
while  all  the  Silent  whispered. 
No,  that  Pan  I  have  never  known, 
but  I  have  felt  the  Pan  of  passion 
when  all  Voices  were  hidden. 

In  sun-flooded  regions 

grows  an  unimagined  herb ; 

only  in  bitterest  stillness, 

under  a  thousand  flames  of  the  sun, 

opens  its  blossom 

for  an  evanescent  moment. 

It  blazes  like  a  maniac's  eye, 

like  death's  red  cheeks. 

This  have  I  perceived 

in  my  hour  of  ecstasy. 

She  was  like  the  subtle  snow  of  the  jasmine, 
the  blood  of  poppies  moved  in  her  veins, 
her  cold,  marmoreal  hands 
lay  in  her  lap 


J.  p.  JACOBSEN  119 

like  nenuphars  on  a  profound  tarn. 

Her  syllables  sank 

as  fall  the  fragile  petals  of  apple-trees 

to  the  dew-cool  grass; 

but  there  were  hours 

when  they  writhed  coldly  and  clearly, 

the  perfect  jet  of  a  fountain. 

There  was  a  sigh  behind  her  laughter 

and  triumph  behind  her  tears. 

Before  her  all  things  bowed  themselves, — 

two  things  alone  defied  her: 

her  own  proud  eyes. 

From  the  dangerous  lily's 

dazzling  chalice 

she  drank  to  me, 

to  him  who  is  dead, 

and  to  him  now  beneath  her  tread. 

To  us  all  she  drank 

(and  then  her  eyes  for  once  obeyed  her) 

the  faith  of  irrefragible  vows 

from  the  dangerous  lily's 

dazzling  chalice. 

All  has  fallen  1 

On  the  snowy  plain 

between  the  brown  trees 

grows  a  lonely  Thorn. 

The  stray  gusts  claim  its  leaves: 

one  by  one. 


I20  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

one  by  one, 

it  rains  slowly  its  blood-red  berries 

upon  the  white  snow, 

glowing  berries 

on  the  cold  snow. — 


Have  you  known  Pan ! 


S.  F.  D. 


VALDEMARS  COMPLAINT  OVER  HIS 
MURDERED  MISTRESS 

Lord,  do  you  realize  what  you  did 
When  you  took  Tove  from  my  breast? 
Do  you  know  that  you  snatched  away 
My  one  expectancy  of  rest? 
Have  you  no  shame,  to  sit  secure 
And  take  the  last  lamb  of  the  poor? 

Lord,  I  also  am  a  king, 
And  I  have  learned  upon  my  throne 
Not  to  steal  from  subject-hearts 
The  last  delight  they  call  their  own. 
Lord,  you  are  wrong!     In  such  a  vein 
You  may  crush,  but  you  cannot  reign. 

Lord,  your  angels  fill  your  ears 
With  flattery  of  your  holy  Name; 
You  find  no  true  friend  by  your  side 
When  you  have  need  of  faithful  blame. 


J.  p.  JACOBSEN  lat 

Ah !  no  one  can  avoid  misrule. 

Lord,  let  me  be,  then,  your  court-fool  I 

S.  F.  D. 


THE  WOOD  WHISPERS  WITH  TOVE'S 
VOICE 

The  wood  whispers  with  Tove's  voice, 

The  lake  gazes  with  Tove's  vision, 

The  stars  shimmer  with  Tove's  smile. 

The  cloud  Is  curved  In  her  breast's  division. 

The  senses  scour  the  forest  to  snare  her, 

The  thoughts  in  despair  vainly  battle  to  gather  her. 

But  Tove  is  there  and  Tove  Is  here, 

Tove  Is  far,  and  Tove  Is  near. 

Are  you  bound,  Tove,  by  the  ancient  spell. 

Here  in  the  lake  and  the  wood  to  dwell? 

The  bosom  expands,  almost  to  bursting. 

Tovel   Tove!    Volmer  is  thirsting! 


You  laugh  far  above  me, 

You  mighty  Power! 

Remember  this — and  you  shall  hear  it 

In  the  Judgment-hour: 

Two  loving  hearts  are  one  single  spirit; 

You  cannot  tear  such  a  pair  asunder. 

Snatch  her  to  heaven,  leave  me  far  under. 


122  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

I  will  not  be  barred  I 
I  will  cut  through  your  angel-guard, 
And  with  my  wild  hunt  gallop  hard 
Into  the  kingdom  of  Heaven! 

S.  F.  D. 


APPARITION 

You  in  my  thoughts — 

Red  is  my  cheek, 

Clenched  is  my  hand. 

My  lips  gently  tremble. 

A  scent  of  dew  and  new,  unfolding  leaves. 

And  the  light  shadows  of  a  naked  bush, 

A  dash  of  orange  sunlight  on  far  windows, 

A  hand  which  leaps  from  off  my  shoulder, 

And  two  lips,  which  in  pain  and  anguish. 

Soundlessly,  suddenly,  burst  from  one  another. 

All  flashes  past  me  in  a  single  second. 

Then  it  is  night ; 

And  high,  against  a  dusky  heaven, 

Upheld  by  spirits,  whom  my  eyes  perceive  as 

A  darkened  yet  a  hueless  undulation, 

There  you  recline,  as  poured  across  the  air. 

Your  dress  is  very  white  and  never  moving. 

Your  arm  is  curved  across  your  features. 


J.  p.  JACOBSEN  123 

Only  the  drawn  mouth's  pain  remains  unhidden. 
Thus  I  behold  you;  and  you  slowly  vanish, 
While  I  and  the  earth  sink  together. 

S.  F.  D. 


NIGHT  PIECE 

When  day  has  gathered  all  its  pain 

And  wept  it  out  in  dew, 

Night  opens  heaven's  keep  again 

With  the  eternal,  silent  pain. 

Ajid  one  by  one 

And  two  by  two 

The  genii  of  far  worlds  walk  out 

From  the  huge  gate  of  heaven's  redoubt. 

Slowly  they  stride  from  the  blue  porches. 

Holding  on  high  their  star-torches 

Far  above  earthly  joy  and  sorrow. 

Not  slow,  nor  quicker, 

Their  steps  they  trace.  .  .  . 

While  strangely  flicker 

In  the  cold  winds  of  Space 

The  star-torches'  wavering  fires. 


124  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

GENRE  PICTURE 

Once  a  page  gazed  far  away 

From  a  lofty  tower, 

Planning  a  long  lover's  lai 

On  his  passion's  power; 

Found  his  thoughts  most  badly  jumbled, 

Sat  and  fumbled 

Now  with  stars  and  now  with  roses — 

Nothing  was  a  rhyme  for  "roses" — 

Then  in  despair  set  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

Clutched  his  sword  with  emotion; 

Blowing  thus  his  passion  out 

Over  the  whole  ocean. 


SCARLET  ROSES 

You  must  suffer  that  for  many  years 
Which  seemed  a  passing  pleasure; 
The  smile  of  an  hour  is  paid  with  tears 
Through  years  that  none  can  measure. 
Harm  and  dole  shall  well  from  the  scarlet  roses. 

Charioted  on  Fortune's  wheel 

We  dash  past  tribulation; 

Yet  already  the  enslaving  load  is  placed 


J.  p.  JACOBSEN  125 

In  wait  at  our  destination. 

Harm  and  dole  shall  well  from  the  scarlet  roses. 

The  life  of  Joy  is  half  dazed  by  dream ; 

But  Grief  is  beyond  seduction. 

Its  lidless  eyes  shall  gaze  on  you : 

Eyes  with  a  whirlpool's  suction. 

Harm  and  dole  shall  well  from  the  scarlet  roses. 

The  smile  must  fail;  for  joy  is  but 
A  flash  before  distant  thunder. 
And  the  tear  shall  remain;  for  repentance  is 
The  shade  of  all  things  gone  under. 
Harm  and  dole  shall  well  from  the  scarlet  roses. 

S.  F.  D. 


An  Arabesque  {En  Arabesk)  was  probably  written  in  1862,  but 
was  not  published  until  1874. 

Valdemar's  Complaint  over  His  Murdered  Mistress  {Herre,  ved 
du  hvad  du  gjordef)  is  the  seventh  of  the  Gurresange.  For  the 
details  of  the  Valdemar-Tove  legend,  see  note  to  Hauch's  Wild 
Hunt. 

The  Wood  Whispers  'with  Tov'e's  Voice.  Two  selections  fronn 
The  Wild  Hunt  {Den  Vilde  Jagt),  the  eighth  of  the  Gurresange. 
In  the  days  of  their  happiness,  Tove  gave  King  Valdemar 
(Volmer)  a  magical  ring  to  insure  his  love.  After  her  murder 
it  was  thrown  into  a  forest  lake;  but  the  ring's  power  was  un- 
diminished, and  Valdemar's  heart  clung  to  the  spot. 


126  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 


Holger  Drachmann,   1846-1908 

IMPROVISATION  ON  BOARD 

The  time  of  light-nights  will  be  over  soon, 
Behind  deep  waters  darkness  looms  profound; 
The  waves  strike  up  their  more  unrestful  tune 
Which  through  the  summer  slept  along  the  Sound. 

Soon,  guided  by  the  southward-flowing  wave. 
The  birds  will  stretch  their  wings  toward  warmer 

zones; 
Soon  Nature  will  sit  mourning  on  her  grave. 
And  we  shall  set  our  voice  to  lonelier  tones. 

But  still  the  summer  night  spreads  out  pale  flame; 
Bent  over  sea  and  land,  light  pinions  shine; 
And  still  the  god  of  dawn  inscribes  his  name 
With  golden  fingers  on  the  grey  sky-line. 

And  still  the  night  breeze  drives  our  boat  along, 
A  silent  wanderer  blown  down  silent  ways, 
And  still  we  can  give  voice  to  summer  song, 
We  who  yet  hoard  the  gold  of  morning  rays. 

Pour  out  libations  to  the  dawn,  and  blend 
With  wine  for  the  young  god,  a  hymn  to  thee. 
When  strikes  our  hour,  then  may  we  have  an  end 
Like  Shelley's  on  the  open  Tuscan  sea.  i^   c  tji 


HOLGER  DRACHMANN  127 

I  HEAR  IN  THE  MIDNIGHT 
I  HEAR  in  the  midnight  the  slumberless 
lull  of  Venetian  waters. 
From  under  the  arches 
solemnly  marches 
a  steady  procession  of  numberless 
ripples,  mournful  and  slow. 
They  are  tiny  dwarfs  from  the  Mountain  where 

stands 
the  Palace  of  Marble;  from  far-away  lands 
they  come,  row  on  row. 
They  are  bearing  a  burden,  they  are  chanting  a 

song, 
pacing  somberly  nearer,  a  sorrowing  throng 
whose  voices  rise  up  to  me  out  of  the  night: 
[Thou  art  dead,  Snow-white ! 

I  see  vaguely  the  fair  apparition 

white-clad,  of  a  wax-pale  child, 

who  lures  me,  who  minds  me 

of  something  that  blinds  me 

with  grief,  as  beholding  that  vision 

my  head  burns,  my  heart  aches  with  frost. 

How  calm  is  her  brow,  how  serenely  at  rest 

she  lies  with  her  hands  child-like  on  her  breast 

trustfully  crossed. 

And  there  in  the  curve  of  her  breast  is  a  spray 

of  the  green  oleander  that  blooms  for  a  day, — 

ah,  why  do  I  hear  through  the  depth  of  the  night: 

Thou  art  dead,  Snow-white? 


laS  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

The  winds  are  awaking,  they  smother 

the  choir  of  the  somnolent  waters. 

The  darkness  grows  vaster; 

the  ripples  run  faster, 

they  hurry  against  one  another 

and  scatter  the  shapes  they  have  drawn. 

The  dwarfs  have  gone  back  to  the  far-away  lands, 

to  the  Mount  where  the  Palace  of  Marble  stands, 

through  the  gate  of  the  dawn. 

I  sit  on  the  threshold,  bitterly  wise ; 

ah,  how  did  those  visions,  those  voices  arise 

from  an  old  fairytale  through  the  desolate  night: 

Thou  art  dead,  Snow-white !  R  S  H 

SAKUNTALA 

I  COULD  not  sleep  for  yearning. 

A  wind  of  flowers 

awoke  my  dreams, 

pouring  warm  through  my  window 

in  rich  Himalayan  streams. 

I  heard  the  tall  palms'  music, 

and  a  word 

they  wept  to  sing ; 

I  heard  it  blown  on  the  winds  of  spring: 

Sakuntala,  Sakuntala. 

August  Himalayan  mountains 
with  splendid  foreheads 


HOLGER  DRACHMANN  129 

against  the  sky, 

why  have  your  fountains  and  rivers 

found  me,  the  remote  passerby? 

What  memories  move  on  your  waters 

that  my  eyes 

are  hot  with  pain? 

What  face  leans  down  from  the  past  again? 

Sakuntala,  Sakuntala. 

O  Thou  I  whose  calm  eyes  lower 

like  hazy  stars 

to  gaze  on  me, 

as  if  at  this  hour  the  magic 

ring  were  bestowed  on  thee; — 

it  is  not  one  hour,  one  day, 

that  divides 

our  souls'  blown  spheres, 

but  thousands  of  years,  withered  years, 

Sakuntala,  Sakuntala. 

O  Child !  thou  hast  lost  no  ring ! 

Dushjantas  flung  it 

into  the  river, 

and  though  he  should  dam  the  current, 

it  will  lie  unfound  forever. 

He  is  hunting  beside  the  river 

where  the  palms 

grow  on  the  slope. 

Dushjantas  has  slain  an  antelope, 

Sakuntala,  Sakuntala.  R.  S.  H. 


I30  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

THE  ROOM  SANK  IN  SILENCE 
The  room  sank  in  silence. 
The  evening  was  spent. 
Where  she  had  been  singing 
stood  the  mute  instrument, 
with  hidden  tones  slumbering 
in  it  at  last; 
she  could  awake  them, 
and  now  that  was  past. 

In  their  place  stood  the  candles 

guttering  low; 

on  the  glasses  scarce  glimmered 

their  wavering  glow. 

You  sipped  here  the  vintage 

life-warmed  with  your  breath; 

I  feel  but  the  glass's 

Cold,  stony  death. 

0  could  you  return  to 
me,  joyfully  then 

1  would  put  back  the  wine 
on  the  table  again; 

the  torches  rekindled 
illumine  our  night, 
you  enthroned  as  the  hostess, 
myself  at  your  right. 

The  rhythm  of  your  singing 
would  flow  through  our  feast; 


He 


HOLGER  DRACHMANN  131 

I  should  sit  at  your  feet  till 
dawn  reddened  the  east. 
And  then  I  should  carry 
you  safe  to  your  door, — 
if  you  were  not  lying 
dead,  long  before. 

The  room  sank  in  silence. 
The  evening  was  spent. 
Out  of  tune  and  neglected 
stood  the  mute  instrument. 
Like  the  pall  of  a  coffin, 
the  cover  shut  fast, — 
O  God,  be  gracious  I 
The  Past  ...  the  Past  .  .  . 

R.  S.  H. 


BARCAROLLE 


You  sit  in  the  boat  that  goes  swimming 
deep  in  the  song  of  the  sea ; 
your  wistful  eyes  overbrimming 
with  dream  as  your  thoughts  run  free 
toward  clouds  of  the  sunset  hour 
where  the  heart's  desire  shines  clear; 
they  reach  to  you,  luringly  near, 
they  beckon,  they  vanish,  they  lower. 


I3a  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

But  the  clouds  of  the  twilight-tower 
in  the  violet  atmosphere, 
that  beckon,  and  beckoning,  lower, 
or  fly  though  they  still  seem  near, 
stand  as  the  symbol  of  sorrow. 
Love's  face  in  a  darkening  mirror; 
they  shine  with  a  light  ever  clearer, 
to  break  into  rain  on  the  morrow. 


She 

Before  me  there  glows 

a  fine  gossamer 

where  rays  of  the  sunlight  tangle  and  blur. 

And  now  my  eyes  close. 

Ah,  you  have  wound  tightly 

the  gossamer  skein, 

you,  who  guessed  rightly 

the  joy  and  the  pain 

that  contend  in  my  dream  of  the  sunset,  and  stain 

my  cheeks  with  the  red  of  the  rose. 

I  walk  as  in  leaves 

of  the  flickering  spring, 

an  ocean  of  flowers  that  billow  and  fling 

their  undulant  sheaves. 

Ah,  could  I  but  guide  you, 

Love,  through  my  dream; 

wander  beside  you 


HOLGER  DRACHMANN  133 

over  that  stream, 

then  let  the  waves  drag  us  beneath  them, — at  least 

our  lives  were  a  song  and  a  feast. 

I  hear  you  call  me, 

the  bird  to  his  love, 

the  stag  to  the  hind  through  the  darkening  grove. 

Ah,  what  shall  befall  me? 

Where  can  I  seek  cover? 

One  word  from  the  lover 

and  the  loved  one  is  there. 

The  bird  and  the  stag  will  follow  me  where 

across  worlds  I  shall  hear  you  call  me. 

R.  S.  H. 


THERE  WELLS  UP  SOUND 

There  wells  up  sound — 

from  deep  eternity, 
From  shadows  of  the  forest's  dreadful  lair; 
Plants,  animals,  all  things  that  live  and  breathe. 
The  smallest  dwellers  in  the  upper  air. 
The  stone  beneath  the  surface,  numb  and  dead. 
In  nameless  torment  sway,  and  writhe,  and  seethe. 
Or  lie  surrendered  to  a  nameless  dread. 

Ah  woe  1  what  figures  menacing  and  dire 
Loom  up  behind  the  mountain  rocks  and  trees  ? 


134  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Phantoms  embracing,  breaking  loose  again, 

Eyes  glaring  out  in  panic-stricken  fire, 

Hands  twisting  in  a  haze  of  fever  glow, 

A  mouth  which  tries  to  bless  and  can  but  curse, 

Strange  whorls  whose  twining  arabesques  rehearse 

The  saga  of  my  youth — 

dead  long  ago. 

Am  I  surrendered  to  a  nameless  dread! 
In  nameless  torment  do  I  writhe  and  seethe? 
Have  I  not  thought  myself  quite  numb  and  dead, 
Free  as  the  dwellers  in  the  upper  air? 
Has  not  the  loneliness  wherein  I  drowned 
Become  the  highest  bliss  wherein  I  breathe, 
Untouched  by  ghosts  of  memoried  despair ! 
Why  then  this  terror  ? — 

hush  I  there  wells  up  sound  I 
R.  S.  H. 


THE  DAY  WHEN  FIRST  I  SAW  YOUR  FACE 

The  day  when  first  I  saw  your  face 
I  only  saw  your  beauty  glowing; 
Golden  lashes  that  interlace 
Like  grain  that  gleams  in  a  sunny  place 
Where  summer  breezes  are  blowing. 


HOLGER  DRACHMANN  135 

The  hour  when  first  I  saw  your  face 
My  heart  received  you  altogether; 
Grey  eyes  and  deep,  where  I  could  trace 
Floods  of  desire  like  streams  that  race 
Through  woods  in  tempestuous  weather. 

But  from  that  hour,  our  first  embrace, 

Cradled  in  love  beyond  all  kiiowing, 

I  flung  my  dreams  of  you  to  space, 

For  your  loving-kindness,  your  gentle  grace, 

Nor  beheld  your  beauty  glowing. 

Grey  eyes  and  deep,  where  I  could  trace 
The  spirit's  dreams  that  live  forever, 
Shadowed  by  lashes  that  interlace 
Like  gleaming  grain  by  streams  that  race 
Toward  the  deep  and  compassionate  river. 

Dear  Child,  enfold  me  with  your  grace 
Of  dream  until  your  spring  has  faded; 
I  love  the  broken  grain,  I  place 
A  kiss  on  the  rain-drenched  flower-face 
That  weeping  has  overshaded.       p   q  H 

VALBORG  SONG 

Hello  there!  take  your  ragged  hat 
Old  as  the  hills  and  tattered. 
Toss  it  up  to  the  ceiling  first. 
Then  down  to  the  floor,  well  battered. 


136  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

High  to  fly, — that's  all  we  know 
When  Pegasus  is  saddled, 
But  the  vicious  ass  soon  throws  you  off, 
He's  old  and  his  brains  are  addled. 

And  to-morrow  is  Valborg's  Day  I 

Whoa !  hold  still  there,  little  horse ! 

You've  been  standing  too  long  idle. 

Once  mounted  I'll  ride  to  Heaven's  Inn 

And  throw  the  porter  the  bridle. 

The  sun  is  shining  and  clear  as  a  gem, 

Clouds  melt  as  the  day  grows  older; — 

"Well,  well,"  says  the  porter,  "and  whom  have 

we  here 
With  a  fiddle  slung  from  his  shoulder!" 

And  to-morrow  is  Valborg's  Day ! 

Fiddler  I  am  by  bent  and  by  trade, 

As  for  strings,  I  don't  own  any. 

But  I  borrowed  these  and  my  fine  old  hat, 

For  I  haven't  a  single  penny. 

My  fiddle  dangles  in  rose-red  bands, 

And  my  hat  has  a  heron  feather. 

But  I  pawned  to  a  Jew  the  clasp  that  held 

The  hat  and  the  plume  together. 

And  to-morrow  is  Valborg's  Day  I 

My  sweetheart  tied  the  red  ribbons  on, 
And  behind  my  ear  she  kissed  me; 


HOLGER  DRACHMANN  137 

I  can  hear  her  voice  wherever  I  go, 
Wherever  the  bypaths  twist  me. 
A  voice  that  whispers:  flit  far  and  wide, 
And  if  you  know  the  way  there, 
Fly  even  to  Heaven's  merry  Inn, — 
But  don't  forget  me  and  stay  there ! 
And  to-morrow  is  Valborg's  Day ! 

R.  S.  H. 


vOlund  the  smith 

Welded  in  chains  I  am  sitting 
All  day  and  all  night,  to  mould 
With  hammer  and  tools  a  treasure, 
A  picture-world  out  of  gold. 

And  if  time  shall  break  in  pieces 
This  thing  that  in  my  sight 
Was  a  treasure,  then  shall  I  slumber 
Through  the  long,  lonely  night. 

If  somebody  tramp  above  me 
On  my  gravestone  wet  with  dew, 
And  declare:  He  was  not  a  master  I 
I  shall  say:  his  words  are  true. 

If  they  say  that  my  art  and  vision 
Were  for  sale  to  whoever  would  buy, 


138  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Then  shall  I  leap  from  my  coffin, 
And  shout:  No!  that's  a  lie! 

Then  proud  and  flushing  with  anger 
At  the  shameful  lies  they  dinned 
In  my  ears,  I  shall  sleep  to  the  murmur 
Of  the  steady,  eternal  wind, 

R.  S.  H. 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  139 

Viggo  Stuckenberg,   1863-1905 

CONFESSION 

I  HAVE  a  saint's  shrine  in  my  home 

of  tempest-gloam, 

of  summer  light, 

of  scattered  stars  in  the  deep  night, 

enchased  with  subtle  cunning. 

There  sleeps,  enchained  by  holy  power, 

each  vanished  hour: 

my  life,  in  its  long  running. 

When  from  the  transitory  round — 

the  joy  profound, 

woe  past  appeal, 

the  tumult  of  the  terrene  wheel — 

my  spirit  hides  serenely, 

there  comes  an  hour  that  is  divine 

from  out  the  shrine, 

which  stirs  my  deep  heart  keenly. 

Not  pleasure,  nor  yet  grief,  awakes. 

— It  seems  there  breaks 

a  host  of  stars 

in  luminous  and  holy  bars 

across  the  lofty  spaces, 

steadily  watching  me  and  mine. 


140  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

remote,  divine, 

with  pure,  eternal  faces. 

And  every  planet  is  a  smile, 

a  bitter  smile, 

a  smile  of  peace, 

a  sigh,  a  triumph,  a  caprice, 

a  dream,  an  hour  of  pining. 

Each  scorn,  each  scoff,  each  hopeful  cry, 

each  heavy  sigh: 

my  life,  forever  shining ! 

I  know  but  one  thing  which  is  mine ; 

it  is  divine : 

my  life  itself, 

for  good  or  bad,  my  life  itself; 

and  I  have  not  the  power 

(since  nothing  else  exists  for  me 

eternally) 

to  blot  out  one  past  hour. 

S.  F.  D. 


EARLY  OCTOBER 

Outside  it  is  blowing. 
Now  the  rain  is  cold, 
and  the  day  grows  barren 
over  the  ugly  mould. 


VIGGO  STUCKENBERG  141 

Under  garden  bushes 
bullfrogs  wetly  stare 
while  the  rose-bed  withers 
in  a  calm  despair. 


My  reseda  shrivels 
like  a  starving  snake, 
where  it  once  expanded 
by  the  sunny  brake. 


All  the  linden  foliage, 
as  the  year  grows  raw, 
turns,  reverses,  crumples 
at  the  slightest  flaw. 


Yet  a  solitary 

pansy  proudly  springs, 
blue  and  deep  and  dusky, 
though  the  chill  wet  clings; 


as  it  were  night's  darkness 
blown  to  flower-form, 
on  its  cheek  a  lonely 
star's  gold  tear  still  warm. 

S.  F.  D. 


142  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

SNOW 

Pallid  earth,  silent  snow, 

peace,  whose  breath  is  gently  clinging, 

sun-hour  joy  and  sun-hour  woe, 

air,  where  now  no  bird  is  singing, 

deepest  peace,  which  blotted  out 
finches'  jubel,  throstles'  sorrow, 
hushing  with  command  devout 
yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow; 

— lo  I  you  were  a  god  to  me, 
weaving  from  your  crystal  quiet 
garments  of  felicity 
vainly  sought  in  the  world's  riot, 

happiness  of  following 

all  the  million  songs  of  being, 

learning  at  the  end  to  sing 

three  or  four  chords  well-agreeing, 

winter  peace  of  loneliness, 
when  on  the  night  sky's  high  glimmer 
hours  long  since  turned  bodiless 
like  a  crowd  of  planets  shimmer. 

S.  F.  D. 

Confession  (Bekendelse),  one  of  a  series  of  poems  addressed 
to  his  friend,  Johannes  Jorgensen,  in  February,  1896.  Jorgenscn 
had  been  converted  from  Atheism  to  Catholicism,  and  had  pub- 
lished Confession  (Bekendelse)  to  which  this  is  an  answer  (see 
page  14s). 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  143 

Johannes  Jorgensen,  b.  1866 

AUTUMN  DREAM 

I  DREAMED  last  night  of  deserted 
Woods  in  the  autumn  rain, 
And  wet,  red  saplings  that  skirted 
The  withered  path  of  pain. 

I  saw  the  thick  hazes  deaden 
Groves  and  the  woodland  beyond, 
And  in  the  red  hills  the  leaden 
Glint  of  a  colourless  pond. 

So  far  from  the  world,  so  lonely 
So  far  from  things  that  exist; 
Only  the  wilderness,  only 
The  fortress  of  autumn  mist. 

The  dark  in  a  thickening  layer, 
The  long  road  withered  and  drear, 
The  drizzle  lowering  greyer, 
And  my  heart  pounding  in  fear. 

I  awoke,  but  still  in  the  streaming 
Light  I  wandered  again 
Down  the  barren  path  of  my  dreaming. 
With  my  eyes  misted  with  rain. 


144  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

It  seemed  as  if  life  were  only 
An  escapeless  path  that  led 
Through  eternal  rain,  and  the  lonely 
Saplings,  twisted  and  dead. 

R.  S.  H. 


THE  PLANTS  STAND  SILENT  ROUND  ME 

The  plants  stand  silent  round  me, 
And  the  trees  with  light  green  leaves 
Where  slanting  sunlight  scatters 
Its  dust  in  yellow  sheaves. 

Far  bells  ring  faintly  over 
The  basking  summerlands, 
Vast  and  green  and  breathless 
Round  me  the  forest  stands. 

Only  a  lonely  throstle  ^ 

Trilling  in  yonder  tree. 

In  the  air  a  smell  of  forests, 

In  my  heart,  ecstasy. 

R.  S.  H. 


JOHANNES  JORGENSEN  US 

CONFESSION 

The  half-moon  sank  behind  a  sombre  tree 
And  glimmered  golden  through  the  leafy  lace. 
One  far,  one  near,  two  voices  rose  to  me. 

I  heard  dance  music  from  a  distant  place, 

Music  of  jaded,  love-worn  violin, 

The  body's  voice  that  thought  has  rendered  base. 

But  near  at  hand  I  heard  the  song  begin 
Of  leaves  that  murmur  like  the  summer  sea 
Under  that  forest  where  the  planets  spin. 

I  paused;  I  rested  there,  and  sleeplessly 
Searched  the  far  moon's  last  smouldering  of  light; 
Then  rode  the  surf  into  eternity. 

Eternity!  why  have  men  shunned  your  height? 
Now  lust-sick  violins  have  sunk  away. 
The   feasters'   lamps  are   quenched  beneath  the 
night. 

But  your  tremendous  song  like  flooding  day 
Lifts  souls  and  minds  and  bodies  toward  the  East; 
Saviour,  Redeemer,  raise  us  from  the  clayl 

As  moonlight  through  the  darkness,  so  the  feast 
Dispersed  seductive  summer-throbbing  song. 
While  the  mind  cringed  to  feel  the  flesh  released. 


146  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

But  like  a  sea  your  music  flows  along, 
And  like  a  vast  and  silent  forest,  sings ; 
O  Shrine  whence  life  is  poured  unstained  and 
strong  I 

Round  coasts  of  earth  your  starry  surf  still  brings 
The  rarer  food  that  life  is  nourished  by; 
O  deep  abyss  where  even  fear  has  wings ! 

Whither,  Eternity,  whither  shall  we  fly? 

Your  great  heart  pulses  through  the  beast,  and 

through 
The  leaf  your  golden  plant-dreams  seek  the  sky 

With  thoughts  of  purer  sun  and  air  and  dew, 
Also  my  spirit  wandering  many  lands, 
Also  my  body  in  the  night  with  you, 

Eternity,  forever  in  your  hands  1  R  S  H 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  147 

Ludvig  Holstein,  b.  1864 
AH,  LOOK,  MY  FRIEND 

A  H,  look,  my  friend,  the  blossoms  on  every  apple 
bough ! 

White  with  a  tinge  of  scarlet, — the  shining  joy 
that  passes. 

Drunken,  the  bees  dive  into  the  flaming  flower- 
masses; 

The  air  is  full  of  balm ;  the  skies  lean  near  us  now. 

What  fay  has  built  these  islands  of  flowers  in  the 

air? 
Here  I  am  sure  we  wandered  in  long  forgotten 

ages! 
"Yes,"  said  my  friend,  "and  later,  when  time  has 

turned  its  pages 
Beyond  our  story,  surely  again  we  wander  there. 

"These  island-gardens  shining  against  the  placid 
blue 

Are  all  that  beauty  whither  the  soul  would  be  re- 
turning. 

And  all  the  white  desires  across  the  heavens  burn- 
ing, 

And  all  the  joys  we  dream  of,  and  fruitlessly 
pursue." 


148  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

"Yes,"  I  repeated  sadly,  "we  fruitlessly  pursue 
The  spring's  profounder  raptures  that  suddenly 

arise 
From  earth  and  hover  near  us,  yet  fly  when  we 

pursue. 

"But  right  above  us,  flowers  glow  through  the  at- 
mosphere; 

The  sky  stands  round  us  deep,  and  blue,  and 
strangely  near."  — 

I  looked  and  saw  tears  sparkle  in  my  friend's  wist- 

^"^  "y"-  R.  S.  H. 


SUNLIGHT  IN  THE  ROOM 

In  my  room  the  light  and  sprightly 
Sunmotes  leap  and  twinkle  brightly; 
Jacob's  ladder  climbs  the  glory 
Of  the  sun  king's  territory. 

Angels  mounting,  intertwining. 
Where  the  million  motes  are  shining; 
Smoke  from  my  cigar  entangles 
With  its  spiraled  blue  their  spangles. 

Look,  the  light  glows  through  the  ruddy 
Red  begonia;  we  could  study 


LUDVIG  HOLSTEIN  149 

In  those  flowers  and  in  those  hairy 
Leaves  each  vein  and  capillary. 

All  the  picture  frames  conspire 
To  enkindle  golden  fire, 
And  the  lampshade  on  the  narrow 
Shelf  shoots  out  a  ruby  arrow. 

Even  the  chair's  green  velvet  cover, 
Half  in  sun,  half  darkened  over. 
Is  a  forest-bounded  meadow 
Slowly  yielding  to  the  shadow. 

You,  my  tiny  wife,  sit  quiet 
In  the  sunlight's  playful  riot. 
Lulled  by  dusk,  amused  by  fancies 
Of  these  mutable  romances. 

R.  S.  H. 


FATHER,  THE  SWANS  FLY  AWAY 

Father,  the  swans  fly  away, — but  where? 
Far  1  Far  1  stretching  their  wings  away. 
Craning  their  necks  toward  the  skyline  that  swings 

away 
Far,  far,  none  knoweth  where. 


I50  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Father,  the  clouds  sail  away, — but  where? 
Far  I  Far !  hunted  by  scurrying 
Winds  out  over  the  bright  sea  hurrying 
Far,  far,  none  knoweth  where. 

Father,  the  days  dance  away, — ^but  where? 
Far!  Far!  whence  the  lost  periods 
Roll  to  the  river  that  swallows  their  myriads, 
Far,  far,  none  knoweth  where. 

Father,  we  too  shall  vanish, — but  where  ? 
Far!  Far!  closing  our  eyes  we  go, 
Bending  our  heads  with  sorrowful  sighs  we  go 
Far,  far,  none  knoweth  where. 

R.  S.  H. 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  151 

Helge  Rode,  b.  1870 

MORNING 

Quickly  I  open  my  eyes  from  sleep, 
I  am  no  longer  blind; 
in  a  second  the  light  of  all  the  world 
pours  carolling  into  my  mind. 

I  look  out  at  the  freshened  world; 
I  laugh  and  sit  up  in  bed 
like  a  healthy  child  who  loves  all  things 
which  he  has  inherited. 

Happiness  quivers  and  power  swells 
through  all  my  exulting  blood. 
I  rejoice  like  the  Lord  on  the  Seventh  Day : 
my  world  is  also  good  I 

Again,  by  my  creative  might, 

I  have  shaped  the  abundant  earth 

with  gardens  and  rivers,  with  flowers  and  trees, 

with  music  and  praise  and  mirth. 

I  have  painted  blue  my  arching  sky, 

I  have  lighted  the  sparkling  sun. 

I  have  fastened  wings  to  my  struggling  thoughts 

and  laughed  at  their  dizzying  fun. 


152  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

O  jubilant  thought  I    My  life,  my  life  I 
O  marvelous  bestowmenti 
During  six  days  God  strove  with  his  world : 
Mine  I  made  in  one  moment.         q  p  n 

PURPLE 

The  midsummer  night  is  oppressive, 
The  midsummer  night  knows  no  rest ; 
the  dim  light  dreams  as  it  watches 
on  the  earth's  drowsy  breast. 

What  is  it?    A  changing  entity? 
Am  I  different,  or  renewed? 
There  wakens — what  is  it  that  wakens 
deep  in  my  pallid  mood? 

It  is  purple — mysterious  purple, 

a  tremulous,  radiant  gloom 

which  burned  and  broke  to  the  present 

from  out  my  spirit's  womb. 

It  wells  up — slowly — then  faster — 

in  desire's  secret  flood: 

I  close  my  eyes,  to  luxuriate 

in  skies  of  purple  blood. 

O  holy  Purple  I    Betray  me 
your  splendid,  resounding  hour  .  .  . 
Transformed ! — I  feel  now,  I  know  now, 
O  Purple,  your  terrible  power ! 

S.  F.  D. 


HELGE  RODE  153 

DREAM  KISS 
I  AWOKE  In  the  night  from  the  gentlest  sleep, 
feeling  your  slow  kiss  subtly  creep 
to  my  mouth :  wherefore  my  slumber  was  deep. 

I  saw,  like  a  dim  waterlily,  your  face 

parted  from  mine  by  a  small  space; 

nought  in  the  world  had  such  exquisite  grace. 

And  nought  by  night  could  so  sweetly  breathe 
or  glimmer  so  white  to  the  blind  beneath 
as  that  waterlily's  petalled  wreath. 

I  saw  that  you  slept,  and  in  your  dream 

you  were  borne  on  the  breast  of  your  love's  stream ; 

no  waking  soul  could  be  so  supreme. 

I  felt  the  strange  kiss  slowly  creep 

as  a  delicate  sweetness  through  my  sleep, 

down  to  my  spirit's  inmost  deep. 

My  kiss  was  yours,  and  yours  was  mine ; 
nought  in  the  world  was  more  divine 
than  our  kiss's  ultimate  anodyne. 

Like  the  waterlily's  petalled  round 
which  reaches  up  from  the  hidden  ground, 
its  roots  were  deep  in  the  rich  Profound. 

S.  F.  D. 


154  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Jeppe  Aakjaer^  b.  1866 

PRELUDE 

I  CROUCH  among  the  friendly  roots  of  rye,  in  shel- 
ter here. 

I  listen,  and  I  listen  till  my  blood  is  singing  clear. 

The  white  rye,  the  kind  rye,  that  strikes  me,  as  the 
breeze 

Plays  with  a  thousand  little  fingers  on  the  silver 
keys. 

It  sounds  like  music  in  a  vaulted  hall  where  dancers 
pass, 

And  the  crystals  of  the  lamps  are  tinkling  with 
their  bells  of  glass. 

The  calling  song,  the  bell  song,  along  the  sum- 
mer rye. 

The  dear  familiar  Danish  sound  in  which  we  live 
and  die. 

It  hymns  across  the  cottage  roofs  and  pastoral 

expanse, 
And  round  the  living  hedge  the  flying  flute  notes 

glance, 
Behind  the  brook  and  bramble  bush  and  marsh  its 

flowing  chord 
Goes  out  to  meet  the  song  of  waves  across  the 

windy  fjord.  R.  S.  H. 


JEPPE  AAKJAER  155 

PAE'  SIVENSAK 

With  wobbling  paunch  and  rigid  neck  and  scant, 

fat  wheeze, 
And  meerschaum  pipe  that  dangles  to  his  round 

knock-knees. 
His  arm  curved  round  a  jersey  blouse,  his  red 

wrists  bare, 
So  waddles   forth  Pae'  Sivensak  who's  dancing 

there. 

So  worthily  he  polkas  with  a  bent,  hunched  back. 

As  though  he  were  cavorting  with  his  big  rye- 
stack  I 

The  sweat  drips  to  his  boot-tops  from  his  lank, 
damp  hair. 

Indeed  it  is  Pae'  Sivensak  who's  dancing  there. 

Along  the  wall  his  family  titters — quite  ill-bred  1 
The  frightened  floor  is  rocking  with  his  ten-ton 

tread, 
And  he  mashes  with  his  pigeon  toes  the  dance 

tune's  blare 
That   follows  up   Pae'   Sivensak  who's   dancing 

there. 

With  wriggling  shoulders,  swollen  eyes,  and  face 

like  dough. 
And  neck  in  fatty  folds  and  creases  row  on  row. 


156  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

And  jingling  watch  that  sounds  as  if  it  cried  out 

clear : 
"O  look!    this  is   Pae'   Sivensak  who's   dancing 

here!" 

His    brain    is    dizzy    inwardly;    his   pulse    hard 

pressed, — 
It  clatters  like  the  cover  of  a  brass-bound  chest. 
His  eyes  are  popping  like  a  toad's  when  storms 

break  near: 
"God  help  me,  poor  Pae'  Sivensak,  who's  dancing 

here." 

A  tailor  sat  behind  the  skirts  (a  full  two  score) 

And  pushed  his  club-foot  forward  on  the  smooth 
dance-floor, 

And  every  one  sprang  up  and  craned  with  round- 
eyed  stare : 

Good  God !  it  was  Pae'  Sivensak  who  tripped  up 

'^''''  .  R.S.H. 


JUTLAND 

From  mist  my  homeland  rises  forth 

with  ridges  and  pasture-lands; 

with  its  back  to  the  south  and  its  feet  to  the  north, 

it  made  its  bed  behind  sands ; 


JEPPE  AAKJAER  157 

but  never  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just, 
for  the  land  and  the  sea  are  at  war; 

when  the  storm  wakes, 

and  the  surf  breaks 
its  knuckles  pounding  the  shore. 

The  brooks  roll  sluggishly  on  through  the  lea 
where  the  rivulet  snares  them  at  length 
and  sedately  spirals  away  to  the  sea 
before  it  has  gathered  its  strength. 
But  how  it  can  glitter  a  late  summer-eve 
when  the  salmon  go  swimming  upstream, 

when  dew  hangs  in  beads 

on  the  beards  of  the  reeds, 
and  the  day  creeps  away  like  a  dream. 

Across  the  broad  meadow  the  summer  wind  moves 

through  a  carpet  of  mossy  turf. 

There  are  shiny-horned  cattle  with  amber  hooves 

in  the  marshes  behind  the  surf. 

The  colt  grows  fat  on  the  upland  grass 

where  the  sap  pours  out  in  streams; 

when  he  roams  the  field 

his  pasterns  yield 
with  strength,  and  his  red  coat  gleams. 

The  fox  suns  his  wicked  head  beneath 
the  dyke,  as  he  gnaws  his  bone. 
A  hare  bounds  over  the  stubbly  heath 
and  sniffs  at  the  grey  field-stone. 


158  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

The  otter,  safe  from  hunter  and  dog, 
plumps  into  his  hidden  hole, 

and  the  herons  fly 

to  the  field  nearby 
where  the  viper  lurks  in  the  knoll. 

A  hill  looms  over  the  seas  of  grain, 

heather-and  blueberry-dark. 

Up  from  the  thicket,  with  swift  refrain, 

rises  a  tufted  lark. 

Far  over  the  wold  to  the  long  skyline 

the  windy  billowings  sweep 

from  the  changing  sky 

through  the  ripening  rye 
that  is  rocked  like  a  child  asleep. 

A  breath  in  the  heather,  a  tinkle  of  rye, 

a  crackle  in  stalks  of  the  grain ; 

the  big-bellied  clouds  troop  over  the  sky 

and  the  blue  fades  to  colour  of  rain. 

Wild  bees  sweep  round  the  cottagers'  eaves 

toward  their  hive  in  the  onion  patch. 

Sometimes  you  hear 

a  whinnying  mare 
from  the  gateway  under  the  thatch. 

Here  in  the  home-field  long  ago 
stood  a  house  with  its  chimney  aslant; 
sausages  hung  from  the  beam  in  a  row, 
all  else  was  but  debt  and  want. 


JEPPE  AAKJAER  159 

Yet  swallows  nested  above  the  door, 
and  the  yard  was  a  flowery  mass, 

and  wormwood  dried 

on  the  walls  outside, 
and  the  hen  laid  her  eggs  in  the  grass. 

There  she  sat  and  spun,  my  weary  mother, 

bent  over  her  work,  day  long, 

and  shared  her  breasts  with  me  and  my  brother, 

and  sang  a  sorrowful  song. 

She  is  resting  now  by  the  leaning  wall 

which  the  poppies  have  overgrown. 

When  I  can  not  bear 

my  weight  of  care, 
then  I  go  through  the  gateway  alone. 

What  were  life  worth  with  its  endless  needs 

and  its  gnawing  vanity, 

if  there  were  no  spot  with  a  dale  and  reeds 

where  the  heart  trembles  to  be ! 

If  we  were  not  drawn  across  the  world, 

drawn  back,  to  stand  at  last 

and  hear  the  song 

of  dream  along 
the  brook  we  loved  in  the  past. 

Blessed  land  where  the  people  toil 
in  want,  by  the  blown  sea  foam, 
I  have  never  owned  a  grain  of  your  soil 
since,  a  wanderer,  I  left  my  home. 


i6o  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

One  harvest  night  from  your  scraggly  thicket 
a  crooked  stick  you  gave 

as  a  farewell  token, 

and  when  it  is  broken 
perhaps  you  will  give  me  a  grave. 

R.  S.  H. 

Pa*'  Sivensak.    Pae',  short  for  Per,  is  pronounced  Peh. 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  i6i 

Sophus  Claussen,  b.  1865 

ABROAD 

Abroad  they  ask  my  rank  and  name, 
And  in  their  foreign  tongues  demand 
Whither  I  journey?  whence  I  came? — 
Denmark  we  call  our  fatherland. 

Sea-enlulled  my  country  lies, 
Flattened  in  islands,  tongued  in  coves. 
Beyond  white  sand  where  the  ocean  dies 
Begin  the  grass  and  luxuriant  groves. 

The  beeches  shadow  the  grassy  plain, 
For  gone  is  the  great  oaks'  tyranny; 
There  over  the  uplands  heavy  with  grain 
Thrives  a  nation  happy  and  free. 

The  sun-blue  sea  that  washes  the  isles 
Has  mellowed  the  island  people  too, 
Gentle  of  weeping,  gentle  of  smiles. 
And  all  the  women's  eyes  are  blue. 

Soft  summer  waves,  that  break  on  the  sand, 
This  is  the  blue  their  eyes  suggest. 
In  May  the  green  floods  over  the  land. 
Green  and  blue  we  know  the  best. 


i62  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

The  freest  of  nations  is  our  home 
Where  the  misty  north  winds  never  cease. 
Behind  the  plough  through  the  steaming  loam 
The  peasants  march  in  the  ranks  of  peace. 

R.  S.  H. 


PAN 


Pan  sat  and  laughed 
As  he  laughs  all  day 
Except  when  he  chooses 
To  sit  and  play. 

Pan  laughed,  for  there 
Was  a  quarreling  pair 
Parting  forever 
Beyond  recall. 
He  would  be  kissing, 
And  she, — not  at  all. 

Pan  sat  and  laughed. 
Convulsed  at  the  sight, 
Echo  repeated 
His  mocking  delight. 

Then  through  the  forest 
Laughter  went  dancing. 
And  wantonly  glancing 


SOPHUS  CLAUSSEN  163 

Sighs  on  the  breeze; 
Flying,  advancing, 
If  fauns  were  in  hiding 
Under  the  trees. 

It  was  groaning  behind  her. 
Twigs  crackled  and  broke. 
And  what  was  that  shadow 
Under  the  oak 
Where  the  dusk  was  so  black ! 

She  fled  from  the  laughter. 
Was  this  the  way  back? 
The  path  would  be  swallowed 
Soon  in  the  darkness. 
What  were  those  footsteps 
That  followed  and  followed! 

She  heard  all  too  clearly 
Some  one  in  chase. 
On  through  the  forest 
She  quickened  her  pace. 

How  came  she  here 
With  night  so  near? 

Now  she  was  lost  I 

She  hurried  through 

A  muddy  fen, 

Not  a  path  was  in  sight. 


i64  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

What  could  she  do  ? 

She  called  to  him  then, 

Though  she  scorned  him  before, — 

A  horrible  plight  I 

She  listened.  No  answer. 
The  steps  pattered  nearer. 
Dangerous,  really  I 

But  then  it  was  he. 

She  flung  herself  on  him, 
Safe  there  at  least! 
And  chattered  and  scolded 
And  called  him  a  dunce 
And  a  heartless  old  beast, 
And  then  even  kissed  him 
More  times  than  once. 

Pan  sat  and  laughed, 
For  none  can  defy 
The  tricks  he  will  try. 

He  laughed  and  he  captured  with  kisses 
A  nymph  who  was  just  passing  by. 

R.  S.  H. 


A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE  165 

Johannes  V .  Jensen^  b.  1873 

AT  MEMPHIS  STATION 

Half-awake  and  half-dozing, 

in  an  inward  seawind  of  danaid  dreams, 

I  stand  and  gnash  my  teeth 

at  Memphis  Station,  Tennessee. 

It  is  raining. 

The  night  is  so  barren,  extinguished, 
and  the  rain  scourges  the  earth 
with  a  dark,  idiotic  energy. 
Everything  is  soggy  and  impassable. 

Why  are  we  held  up,  hour  upon  hour? 
Why  should  my  destiny  be  stopped  here? 
Have  I  fled  rain  and  soul-corrosion 
in  Denmark,  India,  and  Japan, 
to  be  rain-bound,  to  rot,  in  Memphis, 
Tennessee,  U.  S.  A.  ? 

And  now  it  dawns.    Drearily  light  oozes 

down  over  this  damp  jail. 

The  day  uncovers  mercilessly 

the  frigid  rails  and  all  the  black  mud. 


i66  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

the  waiting-room  with  the  slot-machine, 

orange  peels,  cigar-and  match-stumps. 

The  day  grins  through  with  spewing  roof-gutters, 

and  the  infinite  palings  of  rain, 

rain,  say  I,  from  heaven  and  to  earth. 

How  deaf  the  world  is,  and  immovable! 

How  banal  the  Creator! 

And  why  do  I  go  on  paying  dues 

at  this  plebeian  sanatorium  of  an  existence ! 

Stillness.     See  how  the  engine, 

the  enormous  machine,  stands  calmly  and  seethes; 

shrouding  itself  in  smoke,  it  is  patient. 

Light  your  pipe  on  a  fasting  heart, 

damn  God,  and  swallow  your  sorrow ! 

Yet  go  and  stay  in  Memphis! 
Your  life,  after  all,  is  nothing  but 
a  sickening  drift  of  rain,  and  your  fate 
was  always  to  be  belated 
in  some  miserable  waiting-room  or  other — 
Stay  in  Memphis,  Tennessee ! 

For  within  one  of  these  bill-shouting  houses, 
happiness  awaits  you,  happiness, 
if  you  can  only  gulp  down  your  impatience — 
and  here  there  is  sleeping  a  buxom  young  girl 
with  one  ear  lost  In  her  hair; 


JOHANNES  V.  JENSEN  167 

she  will  come  to  encounter  you 
some  fine  day  on  the  street, 
like  a  wave  of  fragrance, 
looking  as  though  she  knew  you. 

Is  it  not  spring  ? 
Does  the  rain  not  fall  richly? 
Is  there  not  the  sound  of  an  amorous  murmur, 
a  long,  subdued  conversation  of  love 
mouth  to  mouth 
between  the  rain  and  the  earth? 
The  day  began  so  sadly, 
but  now,  see  the  rainfall  brighten  1 
Do  you  not  allow  the  day  its  right  of  battle? 
So  now  it  is  light.    And  there  is  a  smell  of  mould 
from  between  the  rusted  underpinning  of  the  plat- 
form 
mingled  with  the  rain-dust's  rank  breath — 
a  suggestion  of  spring — 
is  that  no  consolation? 

And  now  see,  see  how  the  Mississippi 

in  its  bed  of  flooded  forest 

wakes  against  the  day ! 

See  how  the  titanic  river  revels  in  its  twisting ! 

How  royally  it  dashes  through   its  bends,   and 

swings  the  rafts 
of  trees  and  torn  planks  in  its  whirls  I 
See  how  it  twirls  a  huge  stern-wheeler 


i68  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

in  its  deluge-arms 

like  a  dancer,  master  of  the  floor! 

See   the    sunken   headland — oh,    what    immense, 

primeval  peace 
over  the  landscape  of  drowned  forests! 
Do  you  not  see  how  the  current's  dawn-waters 
clothe  themselves  mile-broad  in  the  day's  cheap 

light, 
and  wander  healthily  under  the  teeming  clouds! 

Pull  yourself  together,  irreconcilable  man ! 

Will  you  never  forget  that  you  have  been  prom- 
ised Eternity? 

Will  you  grudge  the  earth  its  due,  your  poor  grati- 
tude? 

What  would  you  do,  with  your  heart  of  love  ? 

Pull  yourself  together,  and  stay  in  Memphis; 
announce  yourself  in  the  market  as  a  citizen; 
go  in  and  insure  yourself  among  the  others; 
pay  your  premium  of  vulgarity, 
so  that  they  can  know  they  are  safe,  as  regards 

you, 
and  you  will  not  be  fired  out  of  the  club. 
Court  the  damosel  with  roses  and  gold  rings, 
and  begin  your  saw-mill,  like  other  people. 
Yank  on  your  rubbers  regularly  .  .  . 
Look  about  you,  smoke  your  sapient  pipe 
in  sphinx-deserted  Memphis  .  .  . 


JOHANNES  V.  JENSEN  169 

Ah  I  there  comes  that  miserable  freight-train 

which  has  kept  us  waiting  six  hours. 

It  rolls  in  slowly — with  smashed  sides ; 

it  pipes  weakly;  the  cars  limp  on  three  wheels; 

and  the  broken  roof  drips  with  clay  and  slime. 

But  in  the  tender,  among  the  coals, 

lie  four  still  forms 

covered  with  bloody  coats. 

Then  our  huge  express-locomotive  snorts; 
advances  a  little ;  stops,  sighing  deeply ; 
and  stands  crouched  for  the  leap.     The  track  is 
clear. 

And  we  travel  onward 
through  the  flooded  forest 
under  the  rain's  gaping  sluices. 

S.  F.  D. 


THE  RED  TREE 

The  tropical  night's  humming  kettle 
boils  over  against  the  morning  .  .  . 
Rain,  rain  from  the  zenith  I 

The  sun  rises  up  in  a  cloud-burst, 
and  out  of  the  rain-drenched  dawn 


I70  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

darts  a  sudden  lightning-flash 
from  a  horrible  luminous  force — 
long  drops,  straight  stalks  of  water 
stand  still  in  the  air  like  glass  rods. 

But  high  behind  the  sunny  rain-trellis, 

a  flowering  tree  expands 

its  red,  gigantic  crest — 

as  fiery  red  a  vision 

in  the  lightning  flare  and  in  the  dawn 

as  a  hot  eruption  of  blood 

from  the  heart  of  the  earth. 

And  after  the  frightful  thunder 
which  seconded  the  lightning, 
all  things  become  deep  and  still 
while  the  day  lengthens 
and  the  water  brawls. 

Now  autumn  and  spring  meet  together 

with  the  lightning  bolt  and  the  blinding  rain 

in  Singapore's  red-flowering  gardens. 

The  tree  stands,  gleaming  with  green, 

fiery  with  flowers, 

and  the  rain  that  caresses  its  crest 

as  with  warm,  watery  hands 

brushes  away  the  faint  flowers  and  leaves 

in  autumnal  whorls 


JOHANNES  V.  JENSEN  171 

to  the  tree's  root, 

while  bright,  shining  buds  and  shoots 

everywhere  open  their  eyes 

in  the  crest,  which  smokes  with  the  damp. 

Now  the  tree  lifts  itself,  glowing 
above  its  own  fall  of  leaves, 
an  imperishable  pyre 
from  which  there  snowed  white  ashes, 
with  a  thousand  new  spires  of  flames. 

Hoi 

Through  the  drunken  tumult  of  the  Deluge  of  rain 

and  the  red  tree's  powerful  rustling, 

I  hear,  like  a  chronicle  of  ages, 

the  whinnyings  of  horses,  the  swarming  of  trum- 
pets, 

gallop,  drums  that  are  magical,  and  a  sound  above 
the  arrows ! 

New  horn-blasts  I   Armies  laugh  I 

Thalatta !    The  sun  over  Austerlitz  I 

The  whole  world  presses  forward  victorious,  and 

dies. 
And  why  do  I  sit  alone,  with  a  rough  croak 
from  my  melancholy  and  marsh-like  heart? 
Who  has  cheated  me  of  my  lightning  destiny? 

S.  F.  D. 


172  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

THE  WANDERING  GIRL 

Who  are  you  then,  wild  girl, 
Wandering  by  on  the  highway. 
Pushing  your  way  in  the  wind 
In  the  red  westerly  sunshine? 

It  is  late ;  are  you  trying  to  keep 

A  tryst  with  the  swift-winged  tempest? 

He  is  a  flyer  I  you  find 

Him  never  until  he  has  fallen. 

The  amorous  wind  presses 
Your  thin  dress  to  your  knees. 
The  wind  lingeringly  outlines 
Your  young  wandering  waist. 

Why  do  you  breast  the  tempest? 

Why  bend  against  the  wind? 

It  will  lift  you ;  strive  no  longer  .  .  . 

The  storm  1  yea,  that  is  1 1 

R.  S.  H. 

THE  BLIND  GIRL 

Do  YOU  say  the  path  is  brightened 
With  flowers  where  we  are  going? 
Alas,  my  feet  are  frightened, 
Beloved;  my  tears  are  flowing. 

Darkness  is  gracious. 


JOHANNES  V.  JENSEN  i73 

Blind  Merete  was  speaking. 

She  walked  with  her  Love,  and  then 

Heard  a  sigh,  went  seeking, 

And  never  found  him  again. 

Darkness  is  gracious. 

Have  you  left  me?    Come  back,  I  need  you  I 
The  hush  crowds  with  alarms. 
Look  I  and  my  love  shall  lead  you 
Back  to  my  groping  arms. 

Darkness  is  gracious. 

Are  you  hiding  to  make  me  worry  ? 
Do  you  smile  at  my  frightened  face? 
Forgive  me,  the  hours  hurry, 
I  want  your  warm  embrace. 

Darkness  is  gracious. 

Silent!  alas,  I  shiver 

Under  the  dewy  spray 

From  the  night's  chilly  river; — 

Your  mouth  is  far  away. 

Darkness  is  gracious. 

Now  listen  1  I  am  afraid. 
I  am  wandering  here  alone, 
Lost  in  a  lurking  shade 
Of  people  silent  as  stone. 

Darkness  is  gracious. 


174  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

Do  black  coffins  hover? 
My  pulses  freeze  and  fall. 
The  dew  and  my  tears  brim  over, 
Tremble  and  weep  and  call. 

Darkness  is  gracious. 

If  you  hear  my  lamentation 
And  leave  me  to  suffer  still, — 
God  smite  you  to  damnation ! 
Do  you  know  the  blind  kill  ? 

Darkness  is  gracious. 

May  the  lightning  strike  you  black! 
Ah,  no, — God  bless  you  again ! 
For  my  sight  is  coming  back, 
And  I  see  that  light  is  pain. 

Darkness  is  gracious. 

Poor  Merete,  poor  lonely 
Embrace  and  sobbing  breath ! 
You  searched  and  searched,  and  only 
Found  the  warm  arms  of  death. 

Darkness  is  gracious. 

R.  S.  H. 


JOHANNES  V.  JENSEN  175 

MOTHER'S  SONG 

There  flowers  in  my  straining  breast 
the  tenderest  of  springs. 
My  own,  my  tiny,  unborn  babe 
under  my  heart  clings. 

I  flush  when  childhood's  hidden  fire 
swells  my  blood  to  a  tide ; 
my  heart  rings  when  your  small  foot  moves 
to  show  you  are  satisfied. 

While  in  our  slumber  you  grow,  I  weep, 
I  sigh,  and  I  laugh  from  mirth. 
We  dream  together  a  twilight  dream 
of  the  green  and  gracious  earth. 

We  dream  of  the  endlessly  billowing  sea 
and  of  heaven's  tremendous  sphere 
and  of  broad  plains  of  flowering  grass, 
where  rest  the  delicate  deer. 

We  dream  of  the  zebra,  the  leopard,  the  gnu ; 
and  of  the  dying  light 
when  the  agile  monkeys  cuddle  and  cough 
in  fear  of  the  forest  night. 

We  dream  of  towers  by  the  Yang-tse-klang, 
of  Himalayan  snowy  cold, 
and  of  the  tremendously  strong  sun 
whom  no  one  dares  behold. 


176  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

I  feel  with  fear  and  double  joy 

in  the  still  night's  fantasy 

how  all  things  are  closer  to  my  heart, 

how  all  have  deserted  me. 

But  ah  I  in  you  will  live  again 
what  dies  with  me  so  soon : 
the  shy  light  of  the  youthful  stars, 
the  wise  dawn  of  the  moon. 

Losing  myself  in  your  smile,  I  die, 
a  thing  of  forgotten  worth. 
I  free  you,  I  weep  myself  away 
to  the  black  and  blessed  earth. 

I  give  you  my  life ;  will  you  lay  me  at  last 
in  rest  beneath  the  fern  ? 
You  are  the  one  to  have  everything 
and  give  nothing  in  return. 

S.  F.  D. 


COLUMBUS 

Full  many  a  ship  on  the  striding  waves 

faltered  and  rolled; 
full  many  a  man  at  the  creaking  helm 

grew  grey  and  old. 


JOHANNES  V.  JENSEN  177 

Columbus  himself  was  bewildered;  he  followed 
his  restless  heart  and  his  wandering  desire 
the  way  of  the  waves  and  the  seawind, 
under  the  wan  moonfire. 

From  the  days  of  boyhood  his  home  had  been 

th€  uncharted  course, 
on  the  blue  steed  with  the  white  mane, — 

Whoa  I  my  horse ! 
And  now  he  was  grey  and  urged  by  desire 
that  grew  like  the  ocean  tremendous  and  tragic, 
the  desire  for  something  eternal 

and  the  open  seas'  lost  magic. 

Grey-headed,  the  blowing  brine  in  his  hair, 

and  mute  with  unrest, 
he  turns  the  prow  of  his  caravel 

to  the  shining  west. 
For  he  lost  his  youth  in  the  eastern  country, 
and  now  in  the  sunset  he  would  discover 
the  land  where  the  sunlight  lingers 

after  the  day  is  over. 

The  ship  is  alone  on  the  breathing  sea, 

as  the  moon  in  the  sky; 
the  disheartened  sailors  keep  watch  for  land, 

for  they  fear  to  die. 
Their  ship  will  come  to  the  edge  of  the  ocean, 
the  terrible  sluice  with  the  sea  downpouring. 


178  A  BOOK  OF  DANISH  VERSE 

and  the  storm  comes  up,  and  they  tremble 
to  hear  the  dark  void  roaring. 

They  threaten  the  silent  skipper,  they  cry : 

Madman,  turn  back  1 
The  abyss  will  swallow  our  tiny  ship 

in  the  howling  black  I 
— Give  me  three  days  more,  and  if  there  is  nothing 
after  three  days  of  sailing-weather, 
I  will  drown,  I  will  die,  I  will  vanish, 

I  and  my  dreams  together. 

The  third  day  wanes  on  the  barren  sea, 

mile  after  mile. 
In  the  fire  of  the  afterglow  there  shines 

a  palm-green  isle. 
There  is  your  promised  land,  O  Columbus ! 
But  while  they  hail  him,  the  great  redeemer, 
And  weep  for  exceeding  gladness, 

he  is  silent,  Columbus,  the  dreamer. 

For  when  he  discovers  the  saving  isle, 

his  visions  flee. 
A  new  world  is  wedged  between  his  soul 

and  the  ultimate  sea. 
And  turning  back,  embracing  the  ocean, 
he  bears  in  his  heart,  forever  burning, 
the  burden  of  the  wandering  billows, 

the  load  of  eternal  yearning. 


JOHANNES  V,  JENSEN  179 

Columbus,  your  withered  age,  and  your  hair 

whitened  with  frost, 
crown  a  Viking  brow  and  a  broken  soul ; — 

your  dreams  are  lost. 
You  gave  us  a  world,  and  now  you  are  sailing 
the  hissing  foam  where  the  worlds  are  swallowed, 
and  your  mighty  shadow  covers 

the  fugitive  light  you  followed. 


For  he  can  not  die  whose  desire  and  woe 

never  will  die. 
The  seawaves  wander  sighing  and  grey, 

grey  as  the  sky. 
There  he  stands  in  chains,  the  adventurous  skipper. 
His  phantom  ship  with  her  dead  goes  flying 
under  the  wan  moonfire, 

where  the  seawaves  wander  sighing. 


Full  many  a  sailor  lost  himself 

and  left  no  trace, 
where  the  seawaves  wander  sighing  and  grey 

through  desolate  space. 
For  there  is  no  god  on  the  perilous  ocean 
but  the  heart  of  Columbus,  forever  burning, 
who  created  a  world  from  his  sorrow, 

and  from  his  eternal  yearning. 

R.  S.  H. 


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